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THE   UNIVERSITY  SERIES 


The 


'Jacobean   Poets 


By    EDMUND    GOSSE 

HON.    M.A.   TRINITY   COLLEGE,    CAMBRIDGE 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1894 


Sj^zs 


fR6- 

PREFACE. 


In  this  volume,  for  the  first  time,  an  attempt  has  been 
made  to  concentrate  attention  on  what  was  produced  in 
English  poetry  during  the  reign  of  James  L,  that  is  to 
say,  during  twenty-two  years  of  th'e  opening  of  the 
seventeenth  century. 

It  is  hoped  that  a  certain  freshness  may  be  gained 
by  approaching  the  subject  from  this  empirical  point 
of  view,  rather  than,  as  hitherto  has  been  the  custom,  by 
including  the  poets  of  James,  and  even  of  Charles,  under 
the  vague  and  conventional  heading  of  "  Elizabethan." 
It  would  not  be  wise,  doubtless,  to  make  a  general  habit 
of  regarding  literary  history  through  artificial  barriers 
of  this  kind;  but  for  once,  and  in  dealing  with  a 
fragment  of  such  a  hackneyed  period,  it  is  hoped  that 
it  may  be  found  beneficial.  The  unparalleled  wealth 
of  English  poetry  during  the  reign  of  James  I.  will 
certainly  strike  the  student,  and  in  many  cases  he  may 
be  surprised  to  find  that  "Elizabethans"  of  the  hand- 


vi  Preface. 

books  had  not  emerged  from  childhood,  or  published  a 
single  copy  of  verses,  when  EHzabeth  resigned  the  seat 
of  kings  to  her  cousin  of  Scotland. 

This  little  volume,  then,  is  an  attempt  to  direct  critical 
attention  to  all  that  was  notable  in  English  poetry  from 
1603  to  1625.  The  scope  of  the  work  has  made  it 
possible  to  introduce  the  names  of  many  writers  who  are 
now  for  the  first  time  chronicled  in  a  work  of  this  nature. 
The  author  believes  the  copious  use  of  dates  to  be  indis- 
pensable to  the  rapid  and  intelligent  comprehension  of 
literary  history,  and  he  has  forced  himself  to  supply  as 
many  as  possible ;  the  student  will,  however,  not  need 
to  be  reminded  that  in  the  dramatic  chapters  these  must 
in  large  measure  be  regarded  as  conjectural.  When  we 
consider  the  vagueness  of  knowledge  regarding  the  detail 
of  Jacobean  drama  even  a  generation  ago,  it  is  surprising 
that  scholarship  has  attained  such  a  measure  of  exacti- 
tude, yet  the  discovery  of  a  bundle  of  papers  might  at 
any  moment  disturb  the  ingenious  constructions  of  our 
theoretical  historians. 

In  selecting  illustrative  passages  for  quotation,  the 
aim  has  been  to  find  unfamiliar  beauties  rather  than 
to  reprint  for  the  thousandth  time  what  is  familiar  in 
every  anthology. 

E.  G. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

Preface          ...            ...            ...            ...  ...        v 

I.     The  Last  Elizabethans  ...            ...  ...                i 

II.     Ben  Jonson — Chapman             ...            ...  ...      23 

III.  John  Donne         ...            ...            ...  ...             47 

IV.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher       ...            ...  ...      68 

V.     Campion  — Drayton  — Drummond  —  Sir  John 

Beaumont               ...            ...            ...  ...      89 

VI.       HeYVVOOD— MiDDLETON — RoWLEY    ...  ...                 ii6 

VII.     Giles  and  Phineas  Fletcher— Browne  ...     137 

VIII.     Tourneur— Webster— Day— Daborne  ...            159 

IX.     Wither — Quarles — Lord  Brooke       ...  ...     iSi 

X.     Philip  Massinger              ...            ...  ...            202 

Index             ...            ...            ...            ...  ...    219 


THE  JACOBEAN    POETS, 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE   LAST   ELIZABETHANS. 

Queen  Elizabeth  died  on  the  24th  of  March,  1603, 
and  was  conducted  to  the  grave  by  the  poets  with  in- 
numerable "  mournful  ditties  to  a  pleasant  new  tune,"  as 
one  of  the  frankest  of  the  rhymsters  admitted.  There  were 
^"elegies"  and  "lamentations,"  ^^luctus"  and  '•^threrwdia^' 
at  the  disappearance  from  so  large  a  scene  of  so  dread 
a  sovereign ;  and  then,  with  the  customary  promptitude, 
there  succeeded  "  panegyricks,"  and  "congratulations," 
and  "  welcomes,"  and  "  wedding  garments  "  addressed 
by  humble  eager  versifiers  to  '' serenissimum  et  poten- 
tissium  Jacobum  beatissimae  EHzabethae  legitime  et 
auspicatissime  succedentem."  Before  we  consider  what 
poetry  was  to  be  throughout  the  reign  of  the  Scottish 
monarch  so  radiantly  conducted  to  the  throne  of  England, 
we  may  glance  at  what  poetry  had  ceased  to  be  by  the 
time  his  predecessor  died, 

B 


2  The  Jacobean  Poets,  [Cn.  I. 

There  is  a  danger  which,  of  course,  must  be  faced 
and  admitted,  in  our  recognizing  a  hard-and-fast  line  of 
demarcation  between  one  epoch  and  another.  Eliza- 
bethan faded  silently  into  Jacobean,  and  no  curtain 
descended  in  1603  which  divided  the  earlier  age  from 
the  later.  But  we  may  with  safety  assert  that  certain 
general  features  marked  English  poetry  under  the  one 
monarch,  and  did  not  mark  it  under  the  other.  To 
compare  selected  passages  is  notoriously  unjust;  but 
without  special  unfairness  it  may  be  advanced  that  such  a 
stanza  as  the  follovv^ing  is  characteristically  Elizabethan — 

Hark  !  hark  !  with  what  a  pretty  throat 
Poor  robin-redbreast  tunes  his  note  ; 
Hark  !  how  the  jolly  cuckoos  sing, 
Cuckoo  !  to  welcome  in  the  spring  ; 

and  this  no  less  characteristically  Jacobean — 

Who  ever  smelt  the  breath  of  morning  flowers, 
New-sweeten'd  with  the  dash  of  twilight  showers. 
Of  pounded  amber,  or  the  flowering  thyme, 
Or  purple  violets  in  their  proudest  prime, 
Or  swelling  clusters  from  the  cypress-tree  ? 
So  sweet's  my  love,  aye,  far  more  sweet  is  he, 
vSo  fair,  so  sweet,  that  heaven's  bright  eye  is  dim. 
And  flowers  have  no  scent,  compar'd  with  him. 

Of  the  two  writers  from  whom  quotation  is  here  made, 
the  later  possessed  the  stronger  genius,  but  in  straight- 
forwardness and  simplicity  the  former  has  the  advantage. 
What  were  lost  were  the  clear  morning  note,  the  serenity, 
the  coolness,  and  sober  sweetness  of  poets  who  had  no 
rivals  in  the  immediate  past.  What  were  gained  were 
passion,  depth  of  thought,  a  certain  literary  cleverness 
(which  was  in  itself  a  snare),  and  a  closer  pertinence  to 


Cii.  I.]  The  Last  Elizabethans.  3 

passing  events.  Bohemia  lost  its  seaports,  the  reahns 
of  the  Fairy  Queen  disappeared,  when  James  I.  came  to 
the  throne.  His  subjects  knew  more  than  their  fathers 
had  done,  spoke  out  more  boldly,  were  more  boisterous 
and  demonstrative.  Romance  ceased  to  rule  their  day, 
and  in  its  place  a  certain  realism  came  to  the  front.  In 
poetry,  that  tended  to  become  turbid  which  had  been  so 
transparent,  and  that  conscious  and  artificial  which  had 
been  so  natural  and  unaffected.  Erudition' became  more 
and  more  a  feature  of  poetry,  and  the  appeal  to  primitive 
observations  and  emotions  less  piquant  than  references 
to  the  extraordinary,  the  violent,  and  even  the  unwhole- 
some. In  this  way,  even  in  work  of  the  magnificent  first 
decade  of  James  I.,  we  can  see  the  sprouting  of  those 
seeds  which  were  to  make  a  wilderness  of  poetry  thirty 
or  forty  years  later.  It  will  be  desirable  to  examine  as 
closely  as  we  can  the  aspects  of  the  two  schools  of  verse 
at  the  arbitrary  moment  which  we  have  chosen  for  the 
opening  date  of  this  inquiry. 

The  mere  knife-cut  of  a  political  event  across  the 
texture  of  literature  is  not  often  of  much  use  to  those 
who  study  literary  history.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
year  1603  forms  a  more  convenient  point  at  which  to 
pass  into  a  new  condition  of  things  than  almost  any 
other  neighbouring  year  would  form.  It  is  impossible, 'V 
of  course,  to  pretend  that  a  distinct  line  can  be  drawn 
between  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean  poetry;  but  it  is  a 
fact  that  while  certain  influences  had  by  that  year  almost 
ceased  to  act,  other  influences  began,  about  that  same 
year,  to  make  themselves  felt.  Before  entering  upon  the 
discussion  of  purely  Jacobean  verse,  that  is  to  say,  of 


4  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  I. 

the  verse  produced  during  the  reign  of  James  I.,  it  will 
be  well  to  glance  at  what  had  been  characteristic  of 
Elizabeth's  reign,  and  had  ceased  to  exist  before  the  time 
of  her  death. 

In  the  first  place,  the  primitive  poetry  which  had 
flourished  at  the  beginning  of  her  reign  was  all  wasted 
and  gone.  It  had  scarcely  left  behind  it  a  trace  of  its 
transitory  charm.  It  had  given  way  to  firmer  and  more 
brilliant  kinds  of  writing.  Three  of  its  proficients  lived 
on,  in  extreme  old  age,  into  the  reign  of  James.  Of 
these  one  was  the  venerable  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells, 
John  Still  (1543-1607),  who,  more  than  half  a  century 
earlier,  had  opened  the  dance  of  English  drama,  with  his 
"right  pithy,  pleasant,  and  merry  comedy  entitled, 
Ganwier  Gurto7i's  Needle.''''  Another  was  AVilliam  Warner 
(i 558-1609),  whose  extremely  popular  Albion's  E?igland, 
a  rambling  historical  poem,  first  published  nearly  twenty 
years  earlier,  was  still  in  good  repute  among  the  lower 
classes,  and  frequently  reprinted.  The  third  was  "old 
hoarse  Palamon"  of  Spenser's  Colhi  Clout^  Thomas 
Churchyard  (i52o?-i6o4),  now  at  the  very  extremity  of 
his  enormous  life,  but  still  pouring  forth  his  doggerel 
publications,  three  of  which  celebrated  events  of  the  new 
reign.  But  all  this  primitive  verse  was  utterly  out  of 
fashion  among  educated  people. 

The  first  clear  running  of  the  pure  pastoral  sweetness 
had  also  ceased.  The  deaths  of  Sidney  and  of  Spenser, 
before  the  sixteenth  century  had  ended,  had  brought  this 
beautiful  and  genuinely  Elizabethan  poetry  to  a  close. 
In  all  of  that  body  of  verse,  the  imitation  of  ancient 
work,  conducted  through  a  bright  romantic  medium,  by 


Cii.  I.]  The  Last  Elizabethans.  5 

men  who  had  before  them   the   task  of  moulding  the 
language,  as  well  as  enlivening  the  imaginations  of  their 
readers,  hacl  led  to  the  creation  of  something  very  lucent, 
fresh  and  delicate.     The  light  of  daybreak  was  over  this 
unsullied  and  almost  boyish  pastoral  poetry.     It  was, 
above  all,  chivalrous  and  impassioned,  full  of  the  pride 
and  glory  of  the  times,  a  little  artificial,  a  little  strained 
and  unnatural,  but  crude  and  brilliant  with  the  unchecked 
fire  and  colour  of  adolescence.     With  the  removal  of  its 
two  great  pioneers,  this  school  of  poetry  was  bound  to 
decline.     But  the  accidents  which  led  to  its  entire  dis- 
appearance before  James  ascended  the  throne  are  curious. 
The  dramatists  whose  lyrics  are  of  this  class  will  presently 
be  referred  to.     But  Lyly  must  be  mentioned  here  as 
the  most  pastoral,  the  most  affectedly  limpid  of  them  all ; 
he  was  still  alive,  but  completely  silent,  and  soon,  in 
1606,  to  die.      Sir  Edward  Dyer  (i55o?-i6o7)  was  in 
the  same  plight,  and  so  was  the  "  Ambrosiac  Muse  "  of 
Henry  Constable  (1562-16 13).     In   Watson   had   long 
ago  passed  away  a  talent  still  more  trivial,  ingenious,  and 
innocent.      All   those   writers   were   wholly   unlike   the 
coarser,  opaquer  and  profounder  Jacobeans.     The  only 
link  between  these  men  and  the  latter  Spenserians,  of 
whom   we   shall   have   much    to   say   in   a  subsequent 
chapter,  was  the  morbid  and  Italianized  Richard  Barn- 
field  (1574-1627),  who,  though  he  outlived  James,  wrote 
no  verse  after  the  death  of  EUzabeth. 

Less  easy  to  define,  as  an  element  closed  up  within 
the  reign  of  EUzabeth,  was  the  first  plaintive  fervour  of 
religious  poetry,  Catholic  or  high-church.  The  reign  of 
Elizabeth  had  not  been,  as  that  of  her  successor  was 


6  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cn.  L 

ultimately  to  be,  rich  in  fine,  devotional  verse.  But  it 
had  produced  the  martyr  Robert  Southwell  (1562-15 95), 
whose  vivid  and  emotional  canzonets  and  hymns  had 
introduced  a  new  element  into  English  literature,  an 
element  not  to  be  taken  up  again  until  nearly  twenty 
years  after  his  death  at  Tyburn,  but  from  that  time 
onward  to  be  carried  on  and  up  till  it  culminated  in  the 
raptures  of  Crashaw. 

The  first  outburst  of  simple  lyrical  writing,  tpo,  had 
come  to  an  end.  After  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  there  was 
no  longer  a  bird  singing  lustily  and  sweetly  in  every 
pamphlet  or  broadside  bush.  Francis  Davison's  Poetical 
Rhapsody,  1602,  was  the  latest  of  those  successive 
anthologies  which  for  nearly  half  a  century,  from  the 
pubhcation  of  TotteV s  Miscellany  in  1557,  had  formed  so 
prominent  and  so  charming  a  feature  in  English  poetical 
literature.  This  series  of  anthologies  had  culminated  in 
E7igland's  Hi  I  icon,  1600,  one  of  the  richest  and  most 
inspired  collections  of  miscellaneous  verse  ever  published 
in  any  country,  or  at  any  time.  In  this  divine  volume 
the  peculiar  lyric  of  the  Elizabethan  age  had  found  its 
apotheosis,  and  after  this  it  very  rapidly  decUned. 
Master  Slender  showed  himself  characteristically  a  man 
of  his  time,  when  he  said,  "  I  had  rather  than  forty 
shillings  I  had  my  book  of  songs  and  sonnets  here." 
The  subject  of  James  I.,  although  he  bought  abundant 
reprints  of  these  Elizabethan  song-books,  produced  none 
that  were  new  for  himself,  except  as  accompanied  by,  or 
written  to  music.  The  decline  of  universal  lyrical  gift  is 
marked  in  the  Jacobean  period,  and  the  songs  which  we 
come  across  in  this  volume  will  mainly  be  found  to  have 
been  the  work  of  belated  Elizabethans. 


Cii.  I.]  The  Last  Elizabethans.  y 

Still  more  complete  was  the  disappearance  of  the 
earliest  school  of  Elizabethan  drama,  the  coherent  and 
serried  body  of  playwrights,  now  generally  known  as  the 
Precursors  of  Shakespeare.  These  men  formed  a  school, 
the  hmits  of  which  are  clearly  defined.  Their  leader 
and  master  was  that  noble  genius,  Christopher  Marlowe ; 
the  other  names  best  known  to  us  are  those  of  Greene, 
Peele,  Kyd,  and  Nash.  The  biographies  of  these  men 
are  in  most  cases  vague,  but  it  seems  certain  that  all  four 
of  them  died,  prematurely,  during  the  last  decade  of 
Elizabeth's  reign.  Their  solitary  survivor.  Lodge,  lived 
on  until  the  year  of  James  I.'s  death,  but  published  no 
new  verse  or  drama  during  the  sixteenth  century.  Lyly, 
the  Euphuist,  too,  was  an  active  dramatist  of  a  still  more 
primitive  class,  who  survived,  but  in  entire  silence.  The 
first  play-harvest  was  completely  garnered  before  the  new 
reign  began,  so  completely  that  Shakespeare,  and  perhaps 
Dekker,  are  the  only  really  transitional  figures  which  are 
more  Elizabethan  than  Jacobean. 

Another  class  of  production  which  had  left  its  mark 
strongly  on  our  literary  development,  and  had  stopped, 
or  at  least  slackened,  by  1603,  was  that  of  the  great 
poetical  translators.  Early  in  Elizabeth's  reign  there 
had  been  a  flock  of  semi-barbarous  translators  of  the 
classics.  If  any  one  of  these  was  still  alive,  it  must 
have  been  Thomas  Twyne,  who  continued  the  yEneids 
of  Phaer.  Later  in  the  hfe  of  the  same  monarch,  a  far 
more  Hterary  and  accomplished  set  of  men  enriched  our 
language  with  versions  of  the  Italian  poets.  Sir  John 
Harington  (i 561-16 12),  aided  by  his  brother  Francis, 
translating  Ariosto  in  159 1,  and  Tasso  being  carefully 


8  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  I. 

interpreted  by  Richard  Carew  (1555-1620)  in  1594,  and 
brilliantly  by  Edward  Fairfax  (i57o?-i635)  in  1600. 
Homer,  first  attempted  in  1581  by  Arthur  Hall,  had 
been  nobly  conquered  by  Chapman  in  1598,  and 
this  last-named  poet  continued,  as  we  shall  see,  through 
the  reign  of  James,  to  annex  first  provinces  of  Greek 
poetry.  But  he  was,  by  age  and  in  spirit,  an  Eliza- 
bethan, and  no  true  Jacobean  was  a  great  translator. 
Even  Sir  Arthur  Gorges'  Lncan^  though  not  published 
until  1 6 14,  was  in  all  probability  written  twenty  years 
earlier. 

One  or  two  very  early  precursors  of  the  Jacobeans 
were  still  alive  in  1603.  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst, 
whose  gloomy  and  magnificent  Induction  is  far  more 
Jacobean  in  style  than  any  of  those  compositions  of 
Spenser's  which  succeeded  it,  was  made  Earl  of  Dorset 
by  James  I.,  and  survived  until  1608.  His  most  famous 
poem,  repeatedly  re-issued  after  his  death,  continued  to 
exercise  an  influence  on  the  younger  writers.  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  was  not  executed  till  16 18,  but  his  later  work  as 
a  versifier  is  largely  conjectural.  Sir  John  Davies,  whose 
philosophical  poems  were  among  the  most  original  and 
beautiful  literary  productions  of  the  close  of  Elizabeth's 
reign,  was  suddenly  silenced  by  the  admiration  James  I. 
conceived  for  his  judgment  in  practical  affairs,  and  was 
henceforth  wholly  absorbed  in  politics.  But  an  examina- 
tion of  Davies'  work,  had  we  space  for  it  here,  would 
form  no  ill  preparation  for  the  study  of  several  classes 
of  Jacobean  poetry.  He  was  eminently  a  writer  before 
his  time.  His  extremely  ingenious  Orchestra^  a  poem  on 
dancing,  has  much  in  it  that  suggests  the  Fletchers  on  one 


Cii.  I.]  The  Last  Eli::ahetJians.  9 

side  and  Donne  on  the  oilier,  while  his  more  celebrated 
magnum  opus  of  the  Aosce  Tcipsum  is  the  general  pre- 
cursor of  all  the  school  of  metaphysical  ingenuity  and 
argumentative  imagination.  In  Davies  there  is  hardly 
a  trace  of  those  qualities  which  we  have  sought  to  dis- 
tinguish as  specially  Elizabethan,  and  we  have  difficulty 
in  obliging  ourselves  to  remember  that  his  poems  were 
given  to  the  public  during  the  course  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  To  the  exquisite  novelty  and  sweetness  of  his 
Hymns  of  Asiraa^  critical  justice  has  never  yet  been 
done.  But  we  have  no  excuse  for  lingering  any  longer  on 
the  works  of  a  poet  so  exclusively  of  the  reign  of  Eliza- 
beth. Barnaby  Barnes  (i 559-1609);,  too,  that  isolated 
Ronsardist  among  our  London  poets,  published  no  lyrics 
after  1595.  His  plays,  perhaps,  were  Jacobean,  but 
we  possess  only  one  of  them,  The  DeviVs  Charter,  not 
printed  till  1607,  which  seems  to  belong  to  the  school 
of  Marlowe.  Joseph  Hall,  the  satirist  of  the  Virgide- 
miarum,  becoming  Bishop  of  Exeter,  wrote  no  more 
verse,  and  died  at  length  in  1656,  by  far  the  last  survivor 
of  the  Elizabethan  choir. 

Of  all  the  writers  of  the  age  it  is  the  laureate,  Samuel 
Daniel,  whom  it  is  most  difficult  to  assign  to  either  reign. 
His  literary  activity  is  accurately  balanced  between  the 
two,  and  it  seems  impossible  to  decide  whether  he  was 
rather  Elizabethan  or  Jacobean.  It  may  therefore  be 
convenient  to  come  first  to  a  consideration  of  his  poems, 
to  which,  however,  from  his  historical  position,  the 
prominence  they  discover  must  not  here  be  awarded. 
He  was  born  near  Taunton,  in  Somerset,  in  or  about 
1562,   was    educated    at    Magdalen    College,   Oxford, 


10  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  i. 

resided  at  Wilton,  and  began  to  publish  verses — the 
Delia  sonnets — in  1592.  He  went  to  Italy,  where  he  met 
Guarini  and  other  leading  men  of  letters,  and  deepened 
the  academic  and  literary  tincture  of  his  taste.  On  his 
return  to  England,  volume  after  volume,  published  in 
quick  succession,  and  collected  as  the  Poetical  Essays 
of  Sam.  Daniel  in  1595,  testified  to  the  fertility  of  his 
fancy.  These  were  lyrical,  gnomic,  and  dramatic,  sonnets, 
odes,  historical  epics,  and  tragedies. 

AVhen  the  new  king  and  queen  were  descending  on 
their  capital,  Daniel  met  them  in  Rutlandshire  with  a 
Pa??egyric,  which,  although  it  was  curiously  blunt  and 
unflattering,  secured  him  their  cordial  favour.  He  was 
made  licenser  of  plays,  salaried  master  of  the  revels  to  her 
Majesty,  and  unofficial  laureate  to  the  court  of  James  I., 
where  he  was  to  the  end  a  peculiarly  favoured  personage. 
He  retired  at  length  to  his  native  Somerset,  and  rented  a 
farm  near  Beckington,  trying,  if  Fuller  is  to  be  believed, 
to  practise  farming  by  the  rules  of  A^irgil's  Georgics. 
He  died  at  the  close  of  16 19,  and  was  buried  in 
Beckington  Church. 

"When  the  Pancgyiick  at  Burleigh  Jlarrijigton  was 
published  in  1603,  there  were  included  with  it  not 
merely  a  prose  Defence  of  Pynie,  which  is  of  high  in- 
terest and  merit,  and  has  remained,  more  or  less,  the  code 
of  English  prosody,  but  also  a  series  of  Certain  Epistles 
in  verse.  The  Panegyric,  which  extends  over  more  than 
seventy  stanzas  of  ottava  rima,  is  a  stately  and  didactic 
piece  of  reflection  on  the  moral  conditions  of  the 
moment,  very  interesting  in  its  w^y,  especially  to  an 
historian,  but  somewhat  prosaic. 

0 


Ch.  I.J  The  Last  Elizabethans.  II 

The  pulse  of  England  never  more  did  beat 
So  strong  as  now  ;  nor  ever  were  our  hearts 

Let  out  to  hopes  so  spacious  and  so  great 
As  now  they  are  ;  nor  ever  in  all  parts 

Did  we  thus  feel  so  comfortable  heat 
As  now  the  glory  of  thy  worth  imparts  ; 

The  whole  complexion  of  the  commonwealth, 

So  weak  before,  hoped  never  for  moi^e  health. 

Couldst  thou  but  see  from  Dover  to  the  Mount, 

From  Totnes  to  the  Orcades,  what  joy, 
What  cheer,  what  triumphs,  and  what  dear  account 

Is  held  of  thy  renown  this  blessed  day  ! — 
A  day  which  we  and  ours  must  ever  count 

Our  solemn  festival,  as  well  we  may  ; 
And  though  men  thus  count  kings  still  which  are  new, 
Yet  do  they  more,  where  they  find  more  is  due. 

The  Epistles^  on  the  other  hand — with  the  exception 
of  his  Elizabethan  JVhisophilus  (1599) — form  Daniel's 
most  attractive  contribution  to  poetry.  It  is  his  fault  to 
persist  when  he  has  ceased  to  be  exhilarating,  and  these 
Epistles — they  are  six  in  number — are  all  short.  They 
are  essays  on  set  moral  themes  addressed  to  persons  of 
nobility,  in  curiously  novel  and  elaborate  measures,  and 
their  sustained  flow  of  reflection,  without  imagery,  without 
ornament,  is  singularly  dignified.  The  Epistle  to  the 
Cou?itess  of  Ctmiberlafid  is  probably  the  best-known  of 
Daniel's  poems ;  that  to  the  Countess  of  Bedford,  in 
terza  ri?/ia,  is  perhaps  even  more  gracefully  conducted 
to  an  academic  close — 

How  oft  are  we  forced  on  a  cloudy  heart 
To  set  a  shining  face,  and  make  it  clear, 
>h  Seeming  content  to  put  ourselves  apart, 


12  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  I. 

To  bear  a  part  of  others'  weaknesses  ! 
As  if  we  only  were  composed  by  Art, 
Not  Nature,  and  did  all  our  deeds  address 

To  opinion,  not  to  a  conscience,  what  is  right. 
As  framed  by  example,  not  advisedness. 
Into  those  forms  that  entertain  our  sight  ; 

And  though  books,  Madam,  cannot  make  this  mind, 
Which  we  must  bring  apt  to  be  set  aright, 
Yet  do  they  rectify  it  in  that  kind. 

And  touch  it  so,  as  that  it  turns  that  way 

Where  judgment  lies  ;  and  though  we  cannot  find 
The  certain  place  of  truth,  yet  do  they  stay  ' 

And  entertain  us  near  about  the  same  ; 

And  gives  the  soul  the  best  delight  that  may 
Encheer  it  most,  and  most  our  spirits  inflame 

To  thoughts  of  glory,  and  to  worthy  ends. 

In  1605  Daniel  published  a  short  but  unusually 
sprightly  lyric  in  dialogue,  called  Ulysses  and  the  Siren. 

The  plays  of  Daniel,  as  Mr.  Saintsbury  has  noted, 
occupy  the  curious  position  of  being  the  only  English 
tragedies  of  the  age  "  distinctly  couched  in  the  form 
of  the  Seneca  model,"  which  was  so  abundantly  em- 
ployed in  France.  But  we  can  scarcely  dwell  upon 
them  here,  since  Cleopatra  was  already  printed  in  1594, 
and  Fkilotas,  though  not  published  until  1605,  was 
unquestionably  written,  in  the  main,  at  least  three  years 
before  the  death  of  Elizabeth.  The  four  masques  or 
entertainments  of  Daniel  remain,  as  distinctly  Jacobean 
work,  to  be  considered.  The  Vision  of  the  Twelve 
Goddesses^  1604,  shows  a  hand  unaccustomed  to  these 
trifles,  and  is  not  a  little  dull.  Much  more  skilful  and 
poetical  is  The  QueefUs  Arcadia^  1605,  which  is  entirely 
in  verse,  blank  and  rhymed,  inextricably  interwoven ; 
this  is  rather  a  romantic  tragi-comedy  in  five  acts,  than 


Ch.  I.] 


TJie  Last  Elizabethans. 


13 


a  masque.  Tethys's  Festival,  16 10,  on  the  other  hand, 
preserves  the  conventional  forms  of  that  kind  of  enter- 
tainment. It  contains  this  song,  very  characteristic  of 
Daniel's  delicate  manner  of  moralizing — 

Are  they  shadows  that  we  see  ? 

And  can  shadows  pleasure  give  ? 
Pleasures  only  pleasures  be 

Cast  by  bodies  we  conceive, 
And  are  made  the  things  we  deem. 
In  those  figures  which  are  seen. 

But  these  pleasures  vanish  fast, 

Which  by  shadows  are  exprest  ; 
Pleasures  are  not  if  they  last, 

In  their  passing  is  their  best ; 
Glory  is  most  bright  and  gay, 
In  a  flash,  and  so  away. 

Feed  apace,  then,  greedy  eyes, 

On  the  wonder  you  behold  ; 
Take  it  sudden  as  it  flies. 

Though  you  take  it  not  to  hold  ; 
When  your  eyes  have  done  their  part. 
Thought  must  length  it  in  the  heart. 

Hymen's  Triumph,  1615,  like  The  Queen's  Arcadia,  is 
a  species  of  pastoral  tragi-comedy,  languid  in  action,  but 
very  exactly  versified.  This  piece  was  highly  praised 
by  Coleridge,  who  was  a  great  admirer  of  the  author. 
"Read  Daniel,"  he  said,  "the  admirable  Daniel;"  but 
in  the  pleasure  he  took  in  his  limpidity  it  is  possible  that 
Coleridge  underrated  the  aridity  of  the  laureate.  The 
almost  unrelieved  excision  of  all  ornament  and  colour, 
the  uniform  stateliness,  the  lack  of  passion,  which  render 
Daniel   admirable   and  sometimes  even  charming  in  a 


14  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  i. 

short  poem,  weary  us  in  his  long  productions,  and  so 
invariably  sententious  is  he  that  we  are  tempted  to  call 
him  a  Polonius  among  poets. 

Another  transitional  figure  is  that  of  Joshua  Sylvester, 
whom  few  historians  of  literature  have  deigned  to  mention. 
He  was,  however,  an  active  producer  of  successful  verse 
in  his  own  age,  and  he  wielded,  moreover,  by  means  of 
his  famous  translation,  a  prodigious  influence.  He  was 
born  in  1563,  in  Kent.  As  early  as  15 91  he  began  that 
version  of  the  Divifie  Weeks  and  Works  of  the  French 
poet,  Du  Bartas,  by  which  he  is  principally  known.  He 
had  the  custom,  fortunately  very  unusual  at  that  time,  of 
not  dating  his  title-pages,  so  that  his  bibliography  is  par- 
ticularly obscure  ;  but  he  seems  to  have  gone  on  publish- 
ing, revising,  and  reprinting  until  close  upon  his  death 
in  1 6 18.  For  the  last  six  years  of  his  life  he  lived  at 
^Middelburg,  in  Holland,  as  the  secretary  to  the  Company 
of  Merchant  Venturers  there.  The  particular  fate,  there- 
fore, which  he  had  most  bitterly  dreaded  and  deprecated 
fell  upon  him,  for  his  fear  had  always  been  to  die  in 
exile.  Into  his  translation  of  Du  Bartas  he  had  inter- 
polated this  appeal— 

Ah,  courteous  England,  thy  kind  arms  I  see, 

Wide-stretched  out  to  save  and  welcome  me. 

Thou,  tender  mother,  wilt  not  sufter  age. 

To  snow  my  locks  in  foreign  pilgrimage, 

That  fell  Brazil  my  breathless  corpse  should  shroud, 

Or  golden  Peru  of  my  praise  be  proud, 

Or  rich  Cathay  to  glory  in  my  verse  ; 

Thou  gav'st  me  cradle  j  thou  wilt  give  my  heaise  ? 

But  the  prayer  was  unheard. 
Sylvester  was  ambitious  of  high  distinction,  but  he  was 


Cii.  I.]  The  Last  Elirjabethans.  15 

dragged  down  by  poverty  and  by  a  natural  turbidity  of 
style.  His  original  sonnets  and  lyrics  are  constantly 
striking,  but  never  flawless ;  his  translations,  as  poems, 
are  full  of  force  and  colour,  but  crude.  His  talent  was 
genuine,  but  it  never  ripened,  and  seems  to  be  turning 
sour  when  it  should  be  growing  mellow.  He  does  not 
fear  to  be  tiresome  and  grotesque  for  pages  at  a  time, 
and  in  Du  Bartas  he  unhappily  found  a  model  who, 
\\\  spite  of  his  own  remarkable  qualities,  sanctioned  the 
worst  errors  of  Sylvester.  Milton  was,  however,  at- 
tracted to  Du  Bartas,  and  approached  him,  almost  un- 
questionably, through  Sylvester,  whose  version  was 
extremely  popular  until  the  middle  of  the  century. 
Sylvester's  vocabulary  was  very  extensive,  and  he  revelled 
in  the  pseudo-scientific  phraseology  of  his  French 
prototype. 

Nicholas  Breton  was  an  Elizabethan  primitive,  who 
went  on  publishing  fresh  volumes  until  after  the  death 
of  James  I.,  but  without  having  modified  the  sixteenth- 
century  character  of  his  style.  He  was  probably  born 
in  1542,  and  lived  on  till  1626.  His  books  are  very 
numerous,  most  of  them,  however,  being  mere  pamphlets. 
He  wrote  indifferently  in  prose  and  verse.  The  most 
notable  of  his  litde  volumes  of  poetry  first  pubhshed 
during  the  reign  of  James,  are  The  Passionate  Shepherd, 
1604;  The  Honour  of  Valour^  1605  ;  and  /  would  and 
yet  I  would  not,  1614;  the  larger  part  of  Breton's 
Jacobean  work  being  in  prose. 

Of  these  short  productions  The  Passionate  Shepherd  is 
by  far  the  best,  and  ranks  very  high  among  Breton's 
contributions  to  poetry.     It  is  a  collection  of  pastoral 


1 6  The  Jacobean  Poets.  Ch.  I. 

lyrics,  in  a  variety  of  measures,  very  lightly,  liquidly,  and 
innocently  thrown  off,  with  no  sense  of  intellectual  effort 
and  no  great  attention  to  style.  Breton  has  a  very 
pleasant  acquaintance  with  nature,  and  can  bring  up 
before  us  such  charming  pictures  as  enable  us  to 

See  the  fishes  leap  and  play, 

In  a  blessed  sunny  day  ; 

Or  to  hear  the  partridge  call, 

Till  she  have  her  covey  all ; 

Or  to  see  the  subtle  fox, 

How  the  villain  flies  the  box, 

After  feeding  on  his  prey  ; 

How  he  closely  sneaks  away, 

Through  the  hedge  and  doAvn  the  furrow, 

Till  he  gets  into  his  burrow  ; 

Then  the  bee  to  gather  honey  ; 

And  the  little  black-haired  coney. 

On  the  bank  for  sunny  place. 

With  her  forefeet  wash  her  face. 

There  is  humour  and  ingenuity  in  his  /  ivould  and  yet 
I  would  7iot,  a  long  statement  of  the  attractions  and 
the  disadvantage  of  almost  every  walk  of  life,  contrasted 
in  this  manner — 

I  would  I  were  a  keeper  of  a  park. 
To  walk  with  my  bent  cross-bow  and  my  hound, 

To  know  my  game,  and  closely  in  the  dark 
To  lay  a  barren  doe  upon  the  ground, 

And  by  my  venison,  more  than  by  my  fees. 

To  feed  on  better  meat  than  bread  and  cheese. 

And  yet  I  would  not ;  lest,  if  I  be  spied, 
I  might  be  turned  quite  out  of  my  walk. 

And  afterwards  more  punishment  abide, 
Than  'longs  unto  a  little  angry  talk. 

And  cause  more  mischief  after  all  come  to  mc. 

Than  all  the  good  the  does  did  ever  do  me. 


The  Last  Elizabethans.  \y 

This  is  picturesque  ;  but  the  see-saw  becomes  tedious 
when  extended  over  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty 
stanzas.  Breton  had  the  root  of  poetry  in  him,  but  he 
was  no  scholar,  inartistic,  and  absolutely  devoid  of  the 
gift  of  self-criticism.  A  small  posy  has  been  selected 
by  Mr.  Bullen  from  the  wilderness  of  his  overgrown 
garden. 

A  similar  writer,  of  perhaps  as  great  general  talent, 
but  not  so  true  a  poet,  was  Samuel  Rowlands.  He  was 
probably  thirty  years  Breton's  junior,  and  did  not  begin 
to  write  until  within  a  few  years  of  the  death  of  Elizabeth. 
He  passes  out  of  our  sight  in  1630.  His  works  consist  of 
satirical  characters  in  verse,  mainly  in  the  six-line  stanza, 
describing  those  fantastical  types  of  the  day  which  so 
many  of  the  minor  writers  delighted  in  caricaturing. 
They  are  often  well-written,  clear,  pointed,  and  regular, 
never  rising  to  the  incisive  melody  of  a  great  poet,  but 
never  sinking  below  a  fairly  admirable  level,  while  for 
the  student  of  manners  they  abound  in  realistic  detail. 
Some  of  the  most  amusing  of  these  collections  come 
before  our  period,  but  LooJz  to  it,  or  Fit  stab  you,  1604, 
is  as  good  as  any  of  its  predecessors.  A  lerrible  Battle 
between  Fire  and  Death,  1606,  aims,  not  wholly  without 
success,  at  nobler  things,  but  becomes  tedious  and 
grotesque. 

As  time  went  on,  Rowlands'  verse  grew  less  senten- 
tious, and  more  broadly  farcical,  and  The  Whole  Crew 
of  Kind  Gossips,  1609,  is  a  favourable  example  of  his 
**  new  humour."  As  we  review  his  successive  volumes, 
we  find  but  slight  further  change,  except  that  they  grow  a 
little  coarser  and  heavier.     The  Melancholy  Knight,  1615, 

c 


1 8  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  I. 

is  the  best  of  his  later  productions.  In  all  the  verse  of 
Rowlands  we  meet  with  the  same  qualities,  a  low  and 
trivial  view  of  life,  an  easy  satire,  a  fluency  and  purity  of 
language  which  never  reaches  elevation  of  style.  A  dull 
book  of  sacred  prose  and  poetry,  called  Hecwen's  Glory, 
Seek  //,  1628,  closes  the  long  catalogue  of  the  writings 
of  Rowlands. 

When  we  turn  to  the  dramatists,  we  meet  at  once  with 
one  name  which,  while  it  is  mainly  the  glory  of  Elizabeth, 
belongs  in  part  to  the  reign  of  her  successor,  it  would 
be  ridiculous,  in  this  place,  to  attempt  the  smallest 
critical  consideration  of  Shakespeare's  writings,  or  even  of 
that  fourth  part  of  them  which  may  be  thought  of  as 
Jacobean.  I  shall  therefore  confine  myself  to  a  bare 
statement  of  the  latest  opinion  with  regard  to  what  plays 
were  composed  after  the  accession  of  James  I.,  and  in 
what  form  these  were  published.  Just  before  the  death 
of  Elizabeth,  as  is  generally  admitted,  a  great  change 
came  over  the  temper  of  Shakespeare,  and  led  him  to 
the  composition  of  his  series  of  lofty  tragedies  of  passion. 
To  these  succeeded,  five  or  six  years  later,  the  quartet  of 
splendid  romances  with  which  his  dramatic  activity  seems 
to  close,  since,  later  than  161 1,  we  can  scarcely  with  any 
certitude  detect  him  actively  at  work. 

Among  the  plays  belonging  to  our  time,  Hatnki  can 
hardly  be  included,  for  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  it 
was  written  in  its  present  form,  and  ready  for  the  press, 
in  July,  1602,  when  The  Revenge  of  Hamlet^  Prince  of 
Denmark^  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Registers.  It 
was  not  printed,  however,  until  1603,  in  an  edition  of 
which  but  two  copies  survive,  both  imperfect.     By  that 


Ch.  I.]  The  Last  Elizabethans, 


19 


time  it  had  been  acted  by  the  King's  Players,  and  "  in 
the  two  Universities  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge."  In 
this  edition  of  1603  Polonius  is  named  Corambis,  and 
there  are  certain  very  feeble  passages  which  do  not  occur 
again.  It  has  been  supposed  that  these  are  remnants  of 
the  pre-Shakespearean  Hamlet^  with  which  it  is  now 
considered  improbable  that  the  great  poet  had  any  con- 
nection previous  to  1602,  when  it  was  doubtless  re- 
modelled by  him  for  the  stage.  Five  quarto  editions 
appeared  during  Shakespeare's  lifetime. 

The  date  of  Ki?ig  Lear  is  pretty  well  ascertained.  It 
must  have  been  written  after  the  publication  of  Dr. 
Harsnet's  book  in  1603,  and  before  it  was  entered  in  the 
Stationers'  Registers  at  Christmas,  1606.  An  attempt 
has  been  made,  founded  on  the  phrase,  "  I  smell  the 
blood  of  a  British  man,"  and  other  slight  internal 
evidence,  to  tie  the  date  of  composition  still  more 
tightly  down  to  the  close  of  1604  and  opening  of  1605. 
This  is  a  highly  probable  hypothesis,  but  one  which 
cannot,  in  the  present  state  of  our  knowledge,  be  insisted 
on.  There  was  printed  in  1594  a  chronicle-history  of 
Lear^  King  of  England,  but  this  has  disappeared,  and 
we  do  not  even  know  whether  it  was  a  play.  A  drama 
of  that  name,  however,  was  issued  in  1605,  when  the 
Lear  of  Shakespeare  was  probably  already  written ;  it  is 
of  no  great  merit,  and  bears  little  resemblance  to  the 
real  tragedy,  of  which  two  editions  were  published  early 
in  1608. 

The  early  editors  of  Shakespeare,  and  Malone  during 
his  lifetime,  declared  Othello  to  have  been  written  in 
161 1.      But    Malone,    in    a    posthumous    pubhcation, 


20  TJie  Jacohcan  Poets.  [dr.  l. 

positively  revised  this  date,  and  gave  1604,  saying,  'Sve 
know  it  was  acted  in  "  that  year.  What  was  the  source 
of  Malone's  information  is  uncertain,  but  it  tallies  with 
a  mysterious  entry  in  the  Revels  Book,  which  itself  is 
forged,  but  which  seems  to  have  been  copied  from  a 
genuine  document,  now  lost,  once  accessible  to  Malone. 
Othello  was  not  printed  until  1622,  a  year  before  the 
first  folio. 

To  the  dramas  we  have  enumerated  some  degree 
of  date-certainty  is  afforded  by  the  fact  that  they  ap- 
peared in  quarto-form.  Troilus  and  Cressida,  too, 
which  may  or  may  not  have  been  in  existence  in  1603, 
was  published  in  1609.  But  of  the  eight  magnificent 
performances  which  must  now  be  mentioned  no  edition 
is  known  to  exist  earlier  than  the  folio  of  1623, 
and  the  dates  of  their  being  written  are  therefore  very 
difficult  to  conjecture  with  assurance.  It  is,  however, 
certain  that  Afitony  a?id  Cleopatra  was  entered  in  the 
Stationers'  Registers  in  May,  1608,  and  it  was  probably 
written  during  the  preceding  year.  There  is  absolutely 
no  evidence  regarding  Timon  of  Athens  and  Coriola?ius, 
but  the  years  1607  and  1608  are  usually  assigned  to 
them.  Cymbeli7ie\Yd,?>  possibly  composed  in  1609,  or  in 
1 6 10  at  the  latest.  Dr.  Simon  Forman  saw  Macbeth 
acted  at  the  Globe  on  the  20th  of  April,  1610^  and 
The  Tempest,  apparently,  in  the  course  of  the  same  year ; 
he  saw  The  Winter's  Tale  on  the  15th  of  May,  161 1, 
and  these  plays  were,  on  these  occasions,  it  is  probable, 
of  recent  composition.  This  chronological  arrangement 
is  borne  out  by  the  changes  in  the  structure  of  Shake- 
speare's verse,  changes  to  which  a  too  mechanical  im- 


Cir.  I.]  The  Last  Elizabethans.  21 

portance  has  been  assigned,  but  which  are  none  the  less 
of  positive  value  in  the  consideration  of  the  succession  of 
his  plays.  Pericles  was  published  in  quarto-form  in  1609, 
and  was  doubtless  written  during  the  preceding  year,  when 
George  Wilkins,  who  is  believed  to  have  collaborated 
on  it  with  Shakespeare,  brought  out  his  prose  tale  in 
illustration  of  the  plot  of  the  play.  Finally,  it  may  be 
noted  that  the  Sonnets,  which,  apparently,  were  not 
completed  until  1605,  first  saw  the  light  in  the  quarto 
of  1609. 

In  the  course  of  his  elaborate  monograph  on  the 
writings  of  the  author  of  Old  FortunaMis,  Mr.  Swinburne 
has  confessed  that  "  of  all  English  poets,  if  not  of  all 
poets  on  record,  Dekker  is  perhaps  the  most  difficult  to 
classify."  This  is  in  part  due  to  the  excessive  redun- 
dancy with  which  he  flung  unacknowledged  fragments  of 
his  work  hither  and  thither,  a  father  without  a  trace  of 
parental  instinct.  Thomas  Dekker  was  born,  doubtless 
of  Dutch  parentage  in  London,  about  1567,  and  did  not 
begin  to  work  until  about  1590.  Yet,  before  Elizabeth 
died,  he  was  the  author  of  eight  plays  of  his  own,  and 
in  nearly  thirty  he  had  combined  with  others.  Of 
this  mass  of  dramatic  production  the  greater  part  has 
disappeared.  During  the  Jacobean  period  he  continued 
to  write  in  the  same  casual  way,  ready  to  throw  in  his 
lot  with  anybody,  but  rarely  producing  a  drama  entirely 
by  himself.  He  gradually  turned  away  more  and  more 
from  verse,  and  became  famous  as  a  pamphleteer  and 
author  of  sensational  tracts.    He  disappeared  about  1632. 

The  best  of  his  plays  is  probably  one  in  which  he  allied 
himself  with  Middleton  in  1604,  a  second  part  appear- 


22  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cn.  I. 

ing  several  years  later.  In  this  occurs  the  famous  passage 
about  patience,  which  has  been  universally  attributed  to 
Dekker — 

Patience  !  why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace  : 
Of  all  the  virtues,  'tis  nearest  kin  to  heaven  ; 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods.     The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  sufferer, 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit ; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed. 

The  delicately  humorous  character  of  Orlando 
Friscobaldo  is  an  example  of  work  excellently  done  in  a 
class  rarely  attempted  by  Dekker,  who  is  unrivalled  in 
short  pathetic  scenes,  has  a  tenderness  that  is  all  his 
own,  combines  with  a  sweet  fancy  a  rare  lyrical  gift,  but 
is  excessively  unequal  as  a  craftsman,  and  mars  some  of 
his  finest  efforts  by  his  impatience,  his  incoherence,  and 
his  carelessness.  It  is  difficult  to  understand  how  it  can 
be  possible  that  the  author  of  the  detestable  stuff  called 
Jf  it  be  not  good,  the  Devil  is  iji  it,  could  have  turned 
away  to  contribute  to  Massinger's  Virgin  Martyr  the 
exquisite  episode  between  the  heroine  and  the  angel. 
This  extravagant  inequality,  ever  recurring,  creates  the 
standing  difficulty  about  the  literary  position  of  Dekker. 

John  Marston  is  believed  to  have  lived  on  until  1634, 
but  his  dramatic  activity  was  almost  entirely  confined  to 
the  four  last  years  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  In  the 
first  year  of  James  I.  he  seems  to  have  composed  his 
Farasitaster,  and  to  have  resigned  The  Insatiate  Countess 
into  the  hands  of  Barkstead  to  arrange  and  complete. 
Some  trifling  pageants  and  entertainments  close  his 
work,  but  Marston  is  to  be  considered  as  essentially 
Elizabethan. 


CHAPTER  II. 

BEN   JONSON— CHAPMAN. 

The  death  of  Elizabeth  was  a  turning-point  in  the 
life  of  Ben  Jonson.  When  James  I.  came  to  the  throne 
of  England,  there  were  few  among  the  poets  whom  he 
welcomed  with  greater  geniality  than  the  rough  young 
man  of  thirty,  hitherto  scarcely  known  except  for  a  series 
of  dramatic  satires,  and  for  a  quarrelsomeness  of  temper 
which  had  led  him  into  several  ugly  scrapes.  He  was 
selected  for  a  new  trade,  that  of  masque-maker,  and 
in  June,  1603,  he  gratified  the  queen  and  Prince  Henry 
by  presenting  The  Satyi'  before  them  at  Althorpe.  The 
success  of  this  exquisite  trifle  decided  in  part  Ben 
Jonson's  vocation.  For  the  rest  of  James's  reign,  in  spite 
of  Daniel's  and  Dekker's  jealousy,  he  was  the  favourite 
arranger  of  thi^  class  of  entertainments.  Busy  as  he  was, 
however,  with  his  duties  as  court  poet,  he  found  time 
before  the  close  of  1603  to  write  Sejatms  his  Fall,  the 
earliest  of  his  Roman  tragedies.  In  this  play  Shake- 
speare ac'ed,  and,  according  to  the  general  belief,  added 
considerably  to  the  acthig  version.  When  Ben  Jonson, 
however,  printed  Seja/ms,  in  1605,  he  omitted  all 
Shakespeare's  lines,  rather  '•'  than  to  defraud  so  happy  a 


24  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  II. 

genius  of  his  right  by  my  loathed  usurpation."  He  got 
into  trouble  with  Lord  Northampton  over  Scjanus,  and 
was  imprisoned  in  company  with  Chapman.  In  1605 
Chapman  and  Jonson  were  once  more  in  "  a  vile  prison  " 
for  writing  against  the  Scotch  in  Eastward  Hoe  !  It  was 
on  the  occasion  of  their  release  that  that  Roman  matron^ 
the  mother  of  Ben,  so  distinguished  herself  "  After  their 
delivery,  he  banqueted  all  his  friends  ;  there  was  Camden, 
Selden,  and  others.  At  the  midst  of  the  feast,  his  old 
mother  drank  to  him,  and  showed  him  a  paper  which 
she  had  (if  the  sentence  had  taken  execution)  to  have 
mixed  in  the  prison  among  his  drink,  which  was  full  of 
lusty  strong  poison ;  and,  that  she  was  no  churl,  she  told, 
she  minded  first  to  have  drunk  of  it  herself." 

Late  in  1605  Ben  Jonson  added  a  cubit  to  his  literary 
stature  by  producing  his  noble  comedy  of  Volpone  or  the 
Fox,  All  these  years  he  was  not  merely  a  frequenter  of 
the  wits'  meeting  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern  in  Friday  Street, 
but  the  very  centre  and  main  attraction  of  the  club.  In 
1609  his  comedy  of  Epicene^  or  the  Silent  IVoinan^  was 
brought  out,  and  in  16 10  The  Alchymist.  This  was  Ben 
Jonson's  blossoming-time,  and  everything  he  now  did 
was  admirable.  A  second  Roman  tragedy,  Catiliiie^ 
dates  from  16  ii.  Ben  Jonson,  who  had  been  a  Roman 
Catholic,  presently  embraced  the  Protestant  faith,  and, 
very  shortly  after.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  selected  him  as 
travelling-companion  to  his  young  son  Walter,  who  was 
"knavishly  inclined."  The  poet  continued  for  some 
time  to  be  bear-leader  to  this  youth,  and  seems,  while  in 
Paris,  to  have  interpreted  the  anxious  father's  directions 
somewhat  lazily.     There  was  a  break  here  in  the  incessant 


Cii.  II.]  Ben  Jonson.  25 

succession  of  Jonson's  masques,  and  his  next  play  was 
Bai-tholomeiv  Fair^  acted  late  in  16 14.  On  the  ist  of 
February,  1616,  the  king  appointed  Ben  Jonson  his  poet- 
laureate,  with  a  salary  of  a  hundred  marks  a  year,  and  after 
bringing  out  The  Devil's  an  Ass,  the  playwright  ceased 
for  a  while  from  his  dramatic  labours.  In  16 16  he 
published  a  folio  collection  of  his  works,  which  contained 
not  only  the  plays,  which  had  already  appeared  succes- 
sively in  quarto,  but  five  new  masques,  several  entertain- 
ments, a  sheaf  of  epigrams,  and  the  lyrical  and  occasional 
pieces  known  as  The  Forest. 

The  life  of  Jonson  for  the  next  few  years  is  rather 
obscure.  In  the  summer  of  16 18  he  travelled  on  foot  to 
Scotland,  and  remained  away  for  about  six  months.  In 
the  first  days  of  16 19,  he  paid  his  celebrated  visit  to 
Drummond  at  Hawthornden.  Immediately  after  his 
departure,  Drummond  took  the  copious  notes  of  Jonson's 
conversation,  which  are  among  the  most  precious  relics  of 
the  age  that  we  possess.  The  greatest  nonsense  has  been 
talked  about  the  "  malice  "  and  "  perfidy  "  of  the  Scotch 
poet.  No  charge  could  be  less  deserved.  An  exceed- 
ingly interesting  guest  had  been  speaking  to  him  with 
absolute  freedom  about  that  literary  life  of  London,  in 
which  Drummond  took  an  acute  and  somewhat  wistful 
interest.  Nothing  could  be  more  natural,  and  nothing 
for  us  more  fortunate,  than  that  the  host,  when  Jonson 
had  departed,  should  jot  down  what  the  guest  had  said. 
Drummond  has  shown  great  art  in  his  notes;  we  seem 
to  hear  the  very  voice  of  Jonson.  The  latter  returned  to 
England,  and  found  himself  welcome  at  court,  but  we 
know  little  of  his  avocations  there.     In  earlier  years  he 


26  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  II. 

had  worked  with  the  celebrated  architect  Inigo  Jones, 
with  wliom  he  had  collaborated  in  the  masques  of 
Blackness  in  1605,  Hymen  in  1606,  and  Queens  in  1609. 
Jones  had  been  abroad  in  France  and  Italy,  but  returned 
to  be  the  Royal  Surveyor  in  1615.  In  Ben  Jonson  and 
Inigo  Jones,  two  headstrong  wills  met  in  conflict,  and 
the  poet  told  Prince  Charles  "that  when  he  wanted 
words  to  express  the  greatest  villain  in  the  world  he 
would  call  him  an  Inigo."  At  last,  after  ten  years, 
the  two  great  inventors  became  friends  again  in  1622, 
when  they  combined  in  the  masque  of  Time  Vindicated 
(January,  1623),  and  they  remained  on  terms  of  mutual 
toleration  till  163 1.  INIeanwhile,  in  October,  1623,  there 
occurred  the  disastrous  fire  in  Jonson's  house,  which 
is  described  in  his  poem,  ^;^  Execration  upon  Vulcan ; 
in  this  many  of  the  poet's  manuscripts,  and  perhaps 
a  play,  were  destroyed.  Just  before  the  death  of  the 
king,  Jonson  produced  another  drama.  The  Staple  of 
Neic's,  in  1625. 

Early  in  1626  the  poet,  who  was  worn  with  labours, 
rather  than  years,  suffered  from  a  stroke  of  paralysis, 
and  another  followed  in  1628.  But  in  September  of  the 
latter  year,  having  recovered  health,  he  was  able  to 
succeed  Thomas  Middleton,  the  dramatist,  as  City 
Chronologcr.  In  1629  was  *•  negligently  played,"  and 
'*  squeamishly  censured,"  the  comedy  of  77ie  Neza  Inn^ 
pubhshed  in  1631 ;  the  epilogue  telh  us  that  "  the  maker 
is  sick  and  sad."  Ben  Jonson  arraigned  the  reception 
of  this  play,  by  writing  an  arrogant  Ode  to  Himself,  which 
created  a  considerable  sensation,  and  was  parodied  or 
answered,  in  a  tone  uniformly  flattering  and  gracious, 


Ch.  II,]  Ben  Joiison.  27 

by  several  of  the  young  generation  of  poets,  to  whom 
Jonson  was  now  an  object  of  veneration.  In  1631,  on 
occasion  of  the  publication  of  certain  masques,  the  old 
quarrel  between  Ben  Jonson  and  Inigo  Jones  broke  out 
again.  Jonson  was  extremely  violent,  lost  his  position 
at  courts  and  was  superseded  by  Carew  and  Aurelian 
Townsend.  Another  comedy,  The  Magnetic  Lady,  was 
licensed  in  1632,  but  so  unsuccessfully  acted  that  it 
was  not  published  till  1641.  The  old  unprinted  play  of 
A  Tale  of  a  Tub,  which  Mr.  Fleay  attributes  to  1601, 
was  revised  in  1634,  but  all  these  late  performances  were 
complete  failures,  and  Jonson  broke  down  under  such 
a  mountain  of  misfortunes.  He  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  in  want  during  his  latest  years,  and  the  young  men 
of  promise  surrounded  him  and  lavished  their  honours 
upon  him.  But  he  was  sick  and  dejected,  and  without 
any  philosophy  to  support  him.  He  died  on  the  6th  of 
August,  1637,  at  the  age  of  sixty-four,  and  was  buried 
three  days  later  in  Westrninster  Abbey.  Rare  Ben 
Jonson  ! 

By  universal  consent,  the  three  great  comedies  of 
Jonson's  central  period  are  his  masterpieces.  Coleridge 
could  never  be  sure  whether  it  was  Volpone  or  The  Alchy- 
;;//^/ which  he  thought  the  first  of  English  comedies.  Mr. 
Swinburne  has  expressed  the  general  opinion  of  lovers 
of  poetry  when  he  says  that  "  no  other  of  even  Jonson's 
greatest  works  is  at  once  so  admirable  and  so  enjoy- 
able "  as  Volpone,  grounding  this  judgment  on  the  exist- 
ence in  that  play  of  something  imaginative  and  even 
romantic,  which  is  wanting  in  The  Alchymist.  The 
hero,   Volpone,   is   a   Venetian    magnifxco    who    feigns 


28  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  II. 

sickness  and  the  approach  of  death,  that,  Uke  a  fox, 
he  may  delude  those  who  gather  round  him,  and  may 
observe  them  at  his  leisure.  He  is  an  amateur  of 
covetousness,  and  it  is  his  passion  to  fill  his  palace, 
like  a  museum,  with  specimens  of  the  greedy  and  the 
obsequious.  But  Volpone  is  much  more  than  a  mere 
hunter  after  oddities;  he  is  himself  the  most  glorious 
living  example  of  the  vice  that  he  imputes.  But  he 
possesses  wealth  to  excess,  and  though  at  the  opening 
of  the  play  we  find  him  brooding  in  an  ecstasy  over  piles 
of  gold,  plate  and  jewels,  what  now  renders  him  the 
keenest  pleasure  is  to  see  other  men  and  women  fawn- 
ing upon  him,  in  hope  of  soon  dividing  his  possessions. 
Three  types  of  legacy-hunters  are  introduced,  Voltore, 
Corbaccio,  and  Corvino,  each  a  shrewd  rogue,  but  all 
easily  gulled  by  the  superior  cunning  of  the  fox.  It  is 
needless  to  tell  the  story  of  the  plot,  which  contains  one 
agreeable  female  character,  Celia,  and  in  the  young 
Bonario  one  man  of  honour.  All  critics  have  united  in 
praising  the  sohdity  of  the  architecture  which  has  built 
up  this  splendid  edifice  of  satire,  and  placed  upon  it  the 
tower  or  spire  of  its  glittering  fifth  act,  in  which,  lest 
the  strain  of  our  indignation  should  be  too  great,  a  fitting 
retribution  is  allowed  to  fall  upon  fox  alike  and  the 
seeming-successful  jackal  that  has  waited  upon  and 
betrayed  him. 

In  construction  The  Alchymi'st  is  perhaps  finer  still, 
and  remains,  in  spite  of  its  proved  unfittedness  for  the 
stage,  and  its  antiquated  interests,  one  of  the  most 
splendid  compositions  written  by  an  English  hand. 
Lamb,  with  unerring  instinct,  hit  upon  the  central  jewel 


Ch.  II.]  Ben  Jonson.  29 

of  the  whole  splendid  fabric  when  he  selected  for  special 
praise  the  long  scene  in  Subtle's  house,  where  Epicure 
Mammon  boasts  what  rare  things  he  will  do  when  he 
obtains  the  philosopher's  stone.  Here  Jonson,  running 
and  leaping  under  the  tremendous  weight  of  his  own 
equipment,  perfectly  overwhelms  the  judgment  "by  the 
torrent  of  images,  words,  and  book-knowledge  with  which 
Mammon  confounds  and  stuns  "  us.  In  The  Alchyjiiist 
the  voluptuousness  of  avarice,  rather  than  its  cruelty  or 
cunning,  occupies  the  poet's  pencil.  The  borderland  of 
tragedy  is  not  here  approached,  as  it  was  in  the  deeper 
savagery  of  Volpone.  Neither  Subtle,  Face,  nor  Dol  is 
other  than  a  tame  or  farcical  rogue  by  the  side  of  the 
horrors  who  succeeded  one  another  by  the  Fox's  mock 
deathbed.  But  the  intrigue  is  much  more  ingenious  and 
yet  reasonable  in  the  later  than  in  the  earlier  play,  and 
indeed  in  mere  strength  and  originality  of  elaborate  in- 
vention no  play  ever  written  exceeded  TJie  Alchymist. 
Here,  again,  the  winding-up  of  the  plot  is  of  the  first 
order  of  felicitous  art. 

The  only  charge,  indeed,  which  can  be  brought  against 
either  of  these  magnificent  and  stately  comedies  is 
that  art  rules  in  them  to  the  dispossession  of  nature. 
An  intellectual  cause  determines  the  position  of  every 
scene,  almost  of  every  line.  An  emotional  irregularity, 
proof  of  a  less  crystaUine  perfection  of  workmanship, 
would  be  welcomed  by  the  reader,  and  while  criticism 
can  scarcely  modify  its  praise  of  those  two  comedies, 
the  heart  is  not  touched  in  them,  and  their  study  but 
proves  the  curious  figures  which  move  so  ingeniously  in 
them  to  have  been  invented  in  the  closet,  not  observed 


30  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  ii. 

in  the  street.  There  is  infinite  wit  and  intelligence 
expended,  but  upon  a  scene  which  is  never  a  reflection 
of  life  itself. 

Between  the  comedies  came  The  Silent  Woinan^  which 
is  commonly  named  with  them.  But  this  is  a  work  of 
inferior  merit.  It  is  a  charming  farce,  but  we  cannot,  as 
Dryden  did,  "prefer  it  before  all  other  plays,  as  I  do 
its  author,  in  judgment,  above  all  other  poets."  The 
eccentric  Morose  cannot  endure  the  least  noise  in  his 
house,  and  has  never  n%arried,  because  he  fears  the  loud 
clack  of  a  woman's  tongue.  His  nephew,  Dauphine, 
produces  a  girl.  Epicene,  who  never  speaks  above  a 
whisper,  nor  otherwise  than  in  monosyllables.  But  on 
the  wedding-day  the  bride  pours  forth  a  perfect  cascade 
of  conversation,  deafening  the  unhappy  bridegroom,  and 
it  is  only  when  he  is  reduced  to  the  verge  of  despair, 
that  his  wicked  nephew  confesses  to  him  that  the 
marriage  was  void,  and  the  Silent  Woman  a  boy  dressed 
up  in  girl's  clothes.  The  general  character  of  this  lively 
play  oddly  resembles  the  lighter  forms  of  comedy  which, 
after  the  example  of  MoUere,  were,  sixty  years  later,  to 
invade  the  English  stage. 

The  other  plays  of  Ben  Jonson  which  came  within  the 
Jacobean  period  are  of  inferior  interest ;  but  the  poet's 
attempt  to  teach  Roman  history  by  means  of  stiff  blank- 
verse  tragedies  must  not  be  overlooked.  Coleridge  wished 
that  we  had  more  than  two  of  these  Roman  pieces,  but 
the  wish  is  one  which  it  is  hard  to  echo.  Mr.  Swinburne 
has  excellently  remarked,  and  it  is  peculiarly  true  of 
Sejanus  and  Catilme,  that  Ben  Jonson  "  took  so  much 
interest  in  the  creations  that  he  had  none  left  for  the 


Ch.  II.]  Ben  Jonson.  31 

creatures  of  his  intellect  or  art."  The  personages  are 
drawn  with  extreme  elaboration,  and  everything  which 
is  recorded  of  them  by  Sallust  or  Tacitus,  even  to  their 
most  trifling  utterances,  is  woven  into  the  dialogue ;  but 
the  dramatist  never  lets  himself  go,  and  never  breathes 
the  breath  of  life  into  the  Frankenstein  monsters  of  his 
learned  fancy.  At  the  same  time,  the  art  of  Jonson  is 
very  purely  displayed  in  these  stiff  tragedies.  The  verse 
marches  with  a  certain  heavy  grandeur ;  the  language  is 
as  stately  as  the  sentiments  and  imagery  are  magnificent. 
A  studied  prosiness,  doubtless  affected  to  protest  against 
the  purple  patchiness  of  the  school  of  Marlowe,  affects 
the  entire  composition,  and  makes  the  continuous  reading 
of  these  Roman  plays  a  tedious  exercise. 

Catiline^s  Conspiracy  has  the  same  faults,  to  greater 
excess.  Certain  parts  of  this  tragedy — such  as  the  long 
soliloquy  of  the  Ghost  of  Sylla  in  Catiline's  study,  and  the 
death-scene  of  the  hero — are  perhaps  more  striking  as 
poetry  than  anything  in  Seja^ius ;  but  the  later  play  is 
even  more  bombastic,  wooden,  and  undramatic  than  the 
earlier.  Choruses  are  introduced,  in  the  manner  of 
Seneca,  but  not  felicitously.  One  in  the  second  act, 
however,  applauding  the  ancient  virtue  of  the  citizen,  has 
a  fine  ring — 

Such  were  the  great  Camilli  too, 
The  Fabii,  Scipios  ;  that  still  thought 
No  work  at  price  enough  was  bought, 

That  for  their  country  they  could  do. 

And  to  her  honour  did  so  knit, 
As  all  their  acts  were  understood, 
The  sinews  of  the  public  good  ; 

And  they  themselves  one  soul  with  it. 


32  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  II. 

These  men  were  truly  magistrates, 
These  neither  practised  force  nor  forms  ; 
Nor  did  they  leave  the  helm  in  storms  ; 

And  such  they  are  make  happy  states. 

Among  the  works  which  follow  the  great  comedies  the 
surprising  farce  of  BartJiolonieiv  Fair,  crowded  with 
personages,  takes  a  foremost  rank.  Here,  with  an 
astounding  vitality,  Jonson  surrounds  the  conception  of 
Roast  Pig  with  a  riot  of  contrasted  figures,  shouting, 
struggling,  permeating  the  Fair  with  their  superabundant 
animation.  There  is  no  dramatic  work  in  English  at  all 
comparable  in  its  own  kind  with  this  brilliant  and  be- 
wildering presentment  of  a  comic  turmoil,  and,  by  a 
curious  chance,  it  is  exactly  here,  where  it  might  be 
expected  that  the  dramatist  would  be  peculiarly  tempted 
to  subordinate  all  attempt  at  character-painting  to  the 
mere  embodiment  of  humours,  that  one  of  Ben  Jonson's 
few  really  living  and  breathing  creatures  is  found  in  the 
person  of  the  Puritan,  Rabbi  Zeal-of-the-Land.  But  after 
1 615  the  dramatic  genius  of  Jonson  underwent  a  sort  of 
ossification,  and  few  readers  are  able  greatly  to  enjoy 
his  later  plays.  Dryden  roundly  styled  them  all  his 
"  dotages,"  and  it  is  certain  that,  although  special  study 
may  discover  beauties  in  each  of  them,  the  merits  of 
Ben  Jonson's  style  are  seen  to  dwindle,  and  his  faults  to 
become  more  patent.  There  is  certainly  a  want  of 
interest  and  coherence  in  The  Devil  is  an  Ass  I  and 
though  Mr.  Swinburne,  whose  authority  is  not  lightly  to 
be  put  aside,  claims  special  appreciation  for  the  Aristo- 
phanic  comedy  of  The  Staph  of  News,  it  has  not  the 
charm    of  Ben  Jonson's   earlier  plays.      The   romimtic 


Ch.  II,]  Ben  Jonson,  33 

comedies  of  The  Nciu  Inn  and  the  Magnetic  Lady^  and  the 
confused,  boorish  farce  of  The  Tale  of  a  Tub^  possess  the 
unmistakable  features  of  Ben  Jonson's  style,  but  the  life 
has  evaporated,  and  has  left  only  the  skeleton  of  his  too 
elaborate  and  self-conscious  artistic  system. 

Two  examples  of  the  dramatic  blank  verse  of  Ben 
Jonson  may  suffice  to  give  a  taste  of  his  style.  The 
first  is  a  speech  of  Latiaris  in  the  fourth  act  of  Sejanus — 

Methinks  the  genius  of  the  Roman  race 

Should  not  be  so  extinct,  but  that  bright  flame 

Of  liberty  might  be  revived  again 

(Which  no  good  man  but  with  his  life  should  lose), 

And  we  not  sit  like  spent  and  patient  fools, 

Still  puffing  in  the  dark  at  one  poor  coal, 

Held  on  by  hope  till  the  last  spark  is  out. 

The  cause  is  public,  and  the  honour,  name, 

The  immortality  of  every  soul, 

That  is  not  bastard  or  a  slave  in  Rome, 

Therein  concerned  ;  whereto,  if  men  would  change 

The  wearied  arm,  and  for  the  weighty  shield 

So  long  sustained,  employ  the  facile  sword. 

We  might  have  soon  assurance  of  our  vows. 

This  ass's  fortitude  doth  tire  us  all : 

It  must  be  active  valour  must  redeem 

Our  loss,  or  none.     The  rock  and  our  hard  steel 

Should  meet  to  enforce  those  glorious  fires  again, 

Whose  splendour  cheered  the  world,  and  heat  gave  life 

No  less  than  doth  the  sun's. 

The  other  is  the  magnificent  burst  of  Sir  Epicure 
Mammon's,  with  which  the  second  act  of  the  Alchymist 
opens — 

Come  on,  sir  !     Now  you  set  your  foot  on  shore 
In  Novo  Orbe  ;  here's  the  rich  Peru  ; 
And  there  within,  sir,  are  the  golden  mines. 
Great  Solomon's  Ophir  !     He  was  sailing  to  it 

D 


34  ^/^^  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  ii. 

Three  years,  but  we  have  reached  it  in  ten  months. 

This  is  the  day  on  which,  to  all  my  friends, 

I  will  pronounce  the  happy  word,  Be  rich  ; 

This  day  you  shall  be  spectatissimi. 

You  shall  no  more  deal  with  the  hollow  die, 

Or  the  frail  card.  .  .  .  No  more 

Shall  thirst  of  satin,  or  the  covetous  hunger 

Of  velvet  entrails  for  a  rude-spun  cloak, 

To  be  displayed  at  Madam  Augusta's,  make 

The  sons  of  Sword  and  Hazard  fall  before 

The  golden  calf,  and,  on  their  knees,  whole  nights, 

Commit  idolatry  with  wine  and  trumpets, 

Or  go  a  feasting  after  drum  and  ensign  ; 

No  more  of  this ! 

A  very  large  section  of  Ben  Jonson's  work  consists  of 
his  masques  and  entertainments,  to  which  he  gave  a 
great  part  of  his  best  ingenuity  for  twenty  years.  It  was 
long  held  that  these  pieces  were  devoid  of  merit,  and 
that  the  poet  debased  his  genius  in  consenting  to  write 
them.  Even  Malone  spoke  of  them  as  "  bungling 
shows,"  in  which  "the  wretched  taste  of  those  times 
found  amusement."  But  the  taste  of  our  own  day  has 
reverted  in  many  respects  to  that  of  the  early  seventeenth 
century,  and  now  each  successive  critic  speaks  with  greater 
admiration  of  the  masques  of  Ben  Jonson.  The  masque 
was  a  developed  pageant,  into  which  music  and  poetry 
had  been  imported  to  give  a  greater  richness  and  fulness 
to  the  design.  It  had  been  conveyed  into  England  from 
Italy  early  in  the  sixteenth  century,  but  it  was  not  until 
Ben  Jonson  took  it  in  hand  that  it  became  noticeable  as 
a  branch  of  hterary  art.  Serious  as  was  the  bent  of  his 
intellect,  he  did  not  disdain  these  elegant  and  charming 
diversions.     He  believed  himself  capable  of  rendering 


Ch.  II.]  Ben  Jonson.  35 

them  immortal  by  his  verse,  and  in  the  preface  to  one  of 
them,  the  Hyvienaei  of  1606,  he  says  as  much  ;  he  claims 
to  have  given  to  the  masque  that  intellectual  vitality 
without  which  "the  glory  of  these  solemnities  had 
perished  like  a  blaze,  and  gone  out  in  the  beholders' 
eyes."  He  was  right ;  for  if  we  are  familiar  with  the 
masques  of  James  and  Anne,  and  have  forgotten  the 
very  names  of  those  performed  in  honour  of  their  pre- 
decessors, it  is  the  literary  art  of  Jonson  and  Daniel  and 
Campion  which  has  preserved  alive  for  us  what  the 
skill  of  the  architect,  musician,  milliner,  and  scene-painter 
could  not  contrive  to  immortalize. 

The  most  valuable  part  of  these  once  gorgeous  masques 
is  therefore,  of  course,  the  lyrical  verse  fantastically 
strewn  throughout  them.  This  is  of  very  various 
interest,  some  of  it  stiff  and  occasional,  rough  with 
oddities  which  no  longer  appeal  to  us,  wanting  in 
suavity  and  sweetness  \  much  of  it,  on  the  other  hand, 
extremely  delicate,  surprising,  and  aerial.  Sometimes, 
with  his  allusions  and  the  copious  learning  of  his  notes, 
Ben  Jonson  turns  a  masque  into  a  work  of  positive 
weight.  The  Masque  of  Queens^  for  instance,  is  an 
important  poem  on  the  subject  of  witchcraft,  treated 
with  exhaustive  picturesqueness. 

The  song  which  introduces  the  dance  in  Pleasure 
Reconciled  to  Virtue,  16 19,  is  a  happy  example  of  Jonson's 
skill  in  the  lyrical  part  of  these  entertainments — 

Come  on,  come  on  !  and,  where  you  go, 

So  interweave  the  curious  knot, 
As  even  the  observer  scarce  may  know 

Which  lives  are  Pleasure's,  and  which  not. 


36  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  II. 

First  figure  out  the  doubtful  way, 
At  which  awhile  all  youth  should  stay, 
Where  she  and  Virtue  did  contend 
Which  should  have  Hercules  to  friend. 

Then  as  all  actions  of  mankind 

Are  but  a  labyrinth  or  maze, 
So  let  your  dances  be  entwined  ; 

Yet  not  perplex  men  into  gaze  ; 

But  measured,  and  so  numerous  too, 
As  men  may  read  each  act  they  do  ; 
And  when  they  see  the  graces  meet, 
Admire  the  wisdom  of  your  feet. 

For  dancing  is  an  exercise. 

Not  only  shows  the  mover's  wit, 

But  maketh  the  beholder  wise, 
As  he  hath  power  to  rise  to  it. 

James  I.'s  taste  for  masques  gave  the  poet  great  scope 
for  a  liberal  invention.  It  is  said  that  the  king  spent 
;£'4ooo  in  this  way  during  the  seven  first  years  of  his 
reign,  for  he  and  the  queen  each  presented  a  masque  at 
Christmas  and  at  Shrovetide. 

In  The  Sad  Shepherd^  a  pastoral  fragment  not  published 
until  1641,  Jonson  attempted  a  higher  species  of  enter- 
tainment; so  far  as  we  are  able  to  judge,  he  had  formed 
a  false  idea  of  the  shape  a  bucolic  drama  should  take, 
but  the  truncated  scenes  of  The  Sad  Shepherd  contain 
some  beautiful  writing.  The  opening  lines  form  the 
most  delicate  example  of  his  skill  in  blank  verse  which 
has  come  down  to  us — 

Here  was  she  wont  to  go  !  and  here  !  and  here  ! 
Just  where  these  daisies,  pinks,  and  violets  grow  ; 
The  world  may  find  the  spring  Ijy  following  her  ; 


Ch.  II.]  Ben  Jonson.  37 

For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left. 

Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 

Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk  ! 

But  like  the  soft  west  wind  she  shot  along, 

And  where  she  went,  the  flowers  took  thickest  root. 

The  miscellaneous  poems  of  Ben  Jonson  present 
features  of  peculiar  interest,  but  they  are  of  the  most 
bewildering  inequality  of  merit.  His  Epigrams  are  not 
merely  exceedingly  bad  in  themselves,  but  they  led  to 
the  formation  of  numberless  imitations^  and  a  baleful 
department  of  seventeenth-century  literature.  It  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  should  rise  from 
the  perusal  of  these  nasty  little  pieces  with  the  conviction 
that  Jonson  enjoyed  "using  the  language  of  scavengers 
and  nightmen."  We  turn  with  relief  to  The  Forest^  a 
collection  of  fifteen  poems,  mainly  elegiacal,  all  of  a 
high  level  of  merit,  all  distinguished  and  vigorous, 
although  none,  perhaps,  of  superlative  beauty.  All  Ben 
Jonson's  other  miscellanies  find  themselves  jumbled 
together  under  the  heading  of  Underiuoods.  Among 
these  are  to  be  found  many  copies  of  verses  which  are 
interesting  as  the  work  of  so  great  a  man,  some  which, 
though  always  rather  stiff,  are  elegant  and  pleasing  in 
themselves,  and  a  majority  which  not  even  the  vast 
prestige  of  Ben  can  induce  us  to  read  with  enjoyment 
or  even  with  toleration.  The  graces  of  the  Jacobean 
age  were  rarely  at  the  beck  of  Ben  Jonson,  and  when  he 
does  not  succeed  in  his  own  elaborate  way,  he  ceases 
to  succeed  at  all. 

The  genius  of  Ben  Jonson  was  long  regarded  with  a 
sort  of  superstitious  reverence.     Even  Dryden,  who  was 


38  The  Jacobean  Poets,  [Ch.  il. 

the  first  to  question  his  supremacy,  admitted  that  he 
thought  Ben  Jonson  "the  most  learned  and  judicious 
writer  which  any  theatre  ever  had,"  and  acknowledged 
him  "the  more  correct  poet,"  but  Shakespeare  "the 
greater  wit."  Although  such  language  would  now  be 
held  extravagant,  and  although  Jonson  is  not  any  longer 
mentioned  among  English  writers  of  the  very  first  rank, 
he  retains  a  firm  and  important  place  in  our  literature. 
Incongruous  as  his  works  are,  and  much  as  his  style 
lacks  fidelity  to  any  particular  ideal,  the  image  we  form 
of  the  poetry  of  Jonson  is  a  very  definite  and  a  very 
striking  one.  He  called  those  "  works  "  which  others 
call  "plays,"  as  Sir  John  SuckUng  complained,  and 
everywhere  we  find  him  laborious,  strenuous,  and  solid. 
His  writings  give  us  the  impression  of  a  very  bold  piece 
of  composite  architecture,  by  no  means  pure  in  style, 
and  constructed  after  a  fashion  no  longer  admired,  nor 
naturally  suitable  to  the  climate,  but  rich,  stately,  and 
imposing. 

The  character  of  the  man  is  clearly  reflected  in 
Jonson's  writings,  and  forms  by  no  means  their  least 
interesting  feature.  They,  like  the  fierce  bricklayer's 
son,  like  the  guest  of  Drummond  and  the  enemy  of 
Inigo  Jones,  like  the  master  of  "  the  mountain  belly  and 
the  rocky  face,"  are  truculent,  saturnine,  direct,  full  of 
arrogance  and  sincerity,  permeated  with  a  love  of  litera- 
ture, but  without  human  passion  or  tenderness.  In  spite  of 
the  fabulous  wealth  of  imagination  and  eloquence  which 
lie  close  below  the  surface  of  Ben  Jonson's  works,  few 
indeed  are  those  who  dig  there  for  treasure.  He  repels 
his  admirers,  he  holds  readers  at  arm's  length.    He  is  the 


Cii.  II.]  Chapman.  39 

least  sympathetic  of  all  the  great  English  poets,  and  to 
appreciate  him  the  rarest  of  literary  tastes  is  required, — 
an  appetite  for  dry  intellectual  beauty,  for  austerity  of 
thought,  for  poetry  that  is  logical,  and  hard,  and  lusty. 
Yet  he  did  a  mighty  work  for  the  English  language.  At 
a  time  when  it  threatened  to  sink  into  mere  prettiness  or 
oddity,  and  to  substitute  what  was  non-essential  for  what 
was  definite  and  durable,  Jonson  threw  his  massive 
learning  and  logic  into  the  scale,  and  forbade  Jacobean 
poetry  to  kick  the  beam.  He  was  rewarded  by  the 
passionate  devotion  of  a  tribe  of  wits  and  scholars ;  he 
made  a  deep  mark  on  our  literature  for  several  genera- 
tions subsequent  to  his  own,  and  he  enjoys  the  perennial 
respect  of  all  close  students  of  poetry. 

A  name  which  it  is  natural  to  think  of  in  conjunction 
v/ith  Jonson's  is  that  of  George  Chapman,  who  resembled 
him  in  the  austerity  of  his  judgment,  in  his  devotion  to 
the  classics,  and  in  his  distinguished  attitude  to  letters. 
But  while  Jonson  was  a  noble  dramatist  and  a  very  bad 
translator.  Chapman  was  one  of  the  best  translators  that 
England  has  ever  produced,  and,  if  I  may  venture  to 
state  a  personal  conviction,  a  dramatist  whose  merits 
were  exceedingly  scanty.  This  latter  opinion  is  one 
which  it  may  perhaps  seem  foolhardy  to  express,  for 
Lamb,  who  first  drew  attention  to  his  plays,  has  praised 
them  exuberantly,  and  Mr.  Swinburne  has  done  Chapman 
the  honour  of  dedicating  to  a  study  of  his  works  a  con- 
siderable volume,  to  which  all  careful  readers  must  be 
recommended.  That  no  injustice  should  be  done  here 
to  this  poet,  I  will  at  once  record  the  fact  that  Lamb 
has   said,    "  Of  all  the    English  playwriters,  Chapman 


40  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cn.  II. 

perhaps  approaches  nearest  to  Shakespeare  in  the 
descriptive  and  didactic,  in  passages  which  are  less 
purely  dramatic."  It  is  rash  to  differ  from  Lamb,  but 
I  am  bound  in  mere  sincerity  to  admit  that  I  find 
nothing  even  remotely  Shakespearian  in  plays  that  seem 
bombastic,  loose,  and  incoherent  to  the  last  extreme,  and 
in  which  the  errors  of  the  primitive  Elizabethans,  due 
mainly  to  inexperience,  are  complacently  repeated  and 
continued  through  the  noblest  years  of  perfected  art, 
in  which  Shakespeare,  Jonson,  and  Fletcher  held  the 
stage.  Chapman  was  an  admirable  and  sometimes  even 
a  great  poet,  but  it  is  hard  to  admit  that  he  was 
ever  a  tolerable  playwright. 

George  Chapman  was  born  at  Hitchin  about  1559,  and 
was  therefore  past  middle  life  when  James  I.  ascended 
the  throne  of  England.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford, 
but  we  know  absolutely  nothing  about  his  occupations 
until  he  was  nearly  forty  years  of  age.  In  the  last  years 
of  Elizabeth  he  came  to  London,  and  was  engaged  in 
dramatic  work  from  about  1595  to  1608.  We  know  of 
eight  or  nine  plays  produced  before  the  death  of  the 
queen,  five  of  which  have  survived.  His  Jacobean 
dramas  are  Mojisieiir  d^  Olive,  published  in  1606,  but 
acted  earlier;  Biissy  dtAvihois,  printed  1607;  Eastward 
Hoe  !  of  which  mention  has  been  already  made,  in  which 
Chapman  collaborated  in  1605,  with  Jonson  and 
Marston;  The  Widouh  Tears,  acted  about  the  same 
time,  but  not  published  until  161 2;  The  Revenge  of 
Bussy  d'Afnbois,  printed  in  161 3,  but  acted  much  earlier  ; 
Byroiis  Co7ispiraey  and  Byron's  Tragedy,  each  of  1608. 
As  late  as  1631,  there  was  published  a  tragedy  of  desar 


Ch.  II.]  Chapman.  41 

and  Pompey,  evidently  an  old  rejected  play  of  Chap- 
man's youth.  With  these  exceptions,  and  those  of  two 
tragic  fragments  which  Shirley  found,  completed  and 
published  in  the  next  age,  all  Chapman's  dramatic  work 
may  be  safely  consigned  to  the  age  of  Elizabeth. 

Webster  commended  Chapman  more  highly  than  any 
of  his  contemporaries,  or,  at  least,  in  enumerating  them 
mentioned  his  name  first,  and  expressed  his  warm 
appreciation  of  "that  full  and  heightened  style"  in  which 
he  considered  Chapman's  tragedies  to  be  written.  Such 
praise,  from  such  a  man,  may  not  lightly  be  passed  over ; 
yet  Chapman's  last  and  most  friendly  apologist  finds 
himself  forced  to  admit  that  ''the  height  indeed  is  some- 
what giddy,  and  the  fulness  too  often  tends  or  threatens 
to  dilate  into  tumidity."  Of  the  four  French  tragedies, 
Biissy  d'Ambois  is  undoubtedly  the  most  interesting, 
being  full  of  soliloquies  and  declamatory  passages  that 
have  a  true  ring  of  epic  poetry  about  them,  and  being  at 
least  as  nearly  allied  to  a  play  as  the  essentially  un- 
dramatic  mind  of  Chapman  could  make  it.  Of  the 
comedies  two  are  certainly  readable  :  Monsieur  d'  Olive, 
a  whirligig  of  fashionable  humours  and  base  love, 
is  undoubtedly  put  together  with  a  good  deal  of 
spirit  and  some  humour,  and  May  Day,  a  '*  coil  to  make 
wit  and  women  friends,"  is  a  still  madder  piece  of 
extravagance. 

But  even  these  prose  plays,  certainly  the  most 
coherent  and  amusing  evidences  of  Chapman's  talent 
as  a  dramatist,  are  in  no  sense  thoroughly  satisfactory. 
The  estimate  of  women  throughout  is  base  to  the  last 
degree ;  no  dramatist  of  the  period  satirizes  the  other 


42  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cn.  Ii. 

sex  with  such  malignant  and  persistent  sarcasm  as 
Chapman.  It  is  a  point  that  seriously  militates  against 
any  claim  he  may  put  forward  to  greatness,  since  perhaps 
nothing  displays  the  inherent  littleness  of  an  imagina- 
tive writer  more  than  the  petulance  or  affected  indigna- 
tion with  which  he  presumes  to  regard  the  world  of 
woman.  The  whole  series  of  Chapman's  comedies  and 
tragedies  contains,  so  far  as  I  know,  not  one  woman 
whose  chastity  is  superior  to  temptation,  whose  wit  is 
adaptable  to  other  purposes  than  those  of  greedy  or 
amatory  intrigue,  or  whose  disposition  presents  any  of 
those  features  of  sweetness  and  fidelity  which  it  is  the 
delight  of  a  high-minded  poet  to  dwell  upon  and 
to  extol,  and  which  most  of  the  Elizabethans  and 
Jacobeans,  however  base  their  fancy  might  take  leave  to 
be,  never  neglected  to  value. 

At  the  opening  of  his  dramatic  career  under  Elizabeth, 
Chapman  had  published  some  strange  and  obscure 
poems  which  it  is  not  our  place  to  speak  of  here.  But 
when  he  ceased  to  write  plays,  he  turned  his  attention 
to  poetry  again.  He  dedicated  to  Prince  Henry,  in 
1609,  The  Tears  of  Peace,  and  to  the  memory  of  the 
same  "most  dear  and  heroical  patron,"  his  Epicediuin 
in  16 1 2.  Etige?iia,  2in  elegy  on  William,  Lord  Russell, 
appeared  in  16 14,  and  Andromeda  Liberata,  an 
epithalamium  on  the  scandalous  nuptials  of  Robert  Carr 
and  Frances,  Lady  Essex,  in  the  same  year.  As  late  as 
the  summer  of  1633  Chapman  wrote,  but  did  not  con- 
clude, an  Invocation  against  Bc7i  Jonson.  All  these 
were  composed  in  the  heroic  couplet.  Of  these  poems 
The  Tears  of  Peace  is  by  far  the  most  valuable,  although 


Ch.  II.]  Chapman,  43 

Eiige?ita  contains  some   highly  wrought  description   of 
natural  phenomena. 

Here  is  a  rising  storm  out  of  the  latter  poem — 

Heaven's  drooping  face  was  dress'd 
In  gloomy  thunderstocks  ;  earth,  seas,  arrayed 
In  all  presage  of  storm  ;  the  bitterns  played 
And  met  in  flocks  ;  the  herons  set  clamours  gone 
That  rattled  up  air's  triple  region  ; 
The  cormorants  to  dry  land  did  address, 
And  cried  away  all  fowls  that  used  the  seas ; 
The  wanton  swallows  jerked  the  standing  springs, 
Met  in  dull  lakes,  and  flew  so  close,  their  wings 
Shaved  the  top  waters ;  frogs  croaked ;  the  swart  crow 
Measured  the  sea-sands,  with  pace  passing  slow, 
And  often  soused  her  ominous  heat  of  blood 
Quite  over  head  and  shoulders  in  the  flood, 
Still  scolding  at  the  rain's  so  slow  access  ; 
The  trumpet-throated,  the  Naupliades, 
Their  clangours  threw  about,  and  summoned  up 
All  clouds  to  crown  imperious  tempest's  cup. 

In  all,  as  Mr.  Swinburne  has  said,  *'the  allegory  is 
clouded  and  confounded  by  all  manner  of  perversities 
and  obscurities,  the  verse  hoarse  and  stiff,  the  style 
dense  and  convulsive,  inaccurate  and  violent,"  with 
occasional  lucid  intervals  of  exquisite  harmony,  which 
affect  the  senses  strangely  in  the  midst  of  balderdash 
so  raucous  and  uncouth. 

It  is,  however,  pre-eminently  as  a  translator  that 
Chapman  takes  high  rank  among  the  English  poets. 
In  1598  he  had  published  two  small  quartos.  Seven 
Books  of  the  Iliads  of  Homer  and  The  Shield  of  Achilles, 
both  dedicated  to  the  Earl  of  Essex.  In  1600  he 
completed    Marlowe's    exquisite    Hero    afid   Leafider, 


44  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  il. 

keeping  much  closer  to  the  text  of  Musaeus.  Prince 
Henry  was  among  those  who  read  and  admired  the 
Homer  fragments,  and  he  commanded  Chapman  to 
complete  his  translation.  Accordingly,  in  1609,  in  folio, 
appeared  Homer,  Prince  of  Poets,  a  version  of  the  first 
twelve  books  of  the  Iliad,  This  was  identical  with  the 
text  of  1598,  but  with  five  books  added.  The  entire 
Iliad  ^2,%  not  published  until  161 1.  In  1612,  Chapman 
issued  the  Penctential  Psalms  of  Petrarch.  He  returned, 
in  spite  of  Prince  Henry's  death,  to  the  translation  of 
Homer,  and  published  the  first  twelve  books  of  the 
Odyssey  in  1614,  and  the  remainder  of  that  epic  in  the 
next  year.  The  Iliad  and  Odyssey  appeared  in  one 
volume  in  16 16,  and  Chapman  completed  his  version  of 
Homer  with  the  Batrachomyomachia  printed,  without 
a  date,  probably  in  1622.  Meanwhile,  Chapman  had 
been  busy  with  Hesiod,  and  published  a  version  of  the 
Georgics,  now  extremely  rare^  in  16 18;  ihQ  Just  Reproof 
of  a  Roman  Smellfeast,  translated  from  Juvenal,  appeared 
in  1629.  His  violent  quarrel  with  Jonson  is,  un- 
fortunately, the  latest  fact  which  has  been  preserved 
about  him  ;  he  died  soon  after,  and  was  buried  in  London, 
at  St.  Giles-in-the-Fields,  on  the  12th  of  May,  1634. 

The  noble  [and  famous  sonnet  written  by  Keats  in 
a  copy  of  Chapman's  Homer  is  a  witness  to  all  time  of 
the  merit  of  that  translation.  Busy  as  Chapman  was  in 
many  fields  of  literature,  it  is  by  Homer  that  he  lives 
and  will  continue  to  live.  He  threw  such  an  incomparable 
fire  and  gusto  into  the  long,  wave-like  couplets  of  his 
Iliad,  that  poet  after  poet  has  been  borne  upon  them  into 
a  new  world  of  imagination. 


Ch.  iL]  Chapman.  45 

Here  is  an  example  from  the  fifteenth  book — 

Then  on  the  ships  all  Troy, 
Like  raw-flesh-nourish'd  lions  rushed,  and  knew  they  did  employ 
Their  powers  to  perfect  Jove's  high  will ;    who  still  their  spirits 

enflamed, 
And  quench'd  the  Grecians' ;  one  renown'd,  the  other  often  sham'd. 
For  Hector's  glory  still  he  stood,  and  even  went  about 
To  make  him  cast  the  fleet  such  fire,  as  never  should  go  out ; 
Heard  Thetis  foul  petition,  and  wish'd  in  any  wise 
The  splendour  of  the  burning  ships  might  satiate  his  eyes. 
From  him  yet  the  repulse  was  then  to  be  on  Troy  conferr'd, 
The  honour  of  it  given  the  Greeks  ;  which  thinking  on,  he  stirr'd 
With  such  addition  of  his  spirit,  the  spirit  Hector  bore 
To  burn  the  fleet,  that  of  itself  was  hot  enough  before. 
But  now  he  far'd  like  Mars  himself,  so  brandishing  his  lance 
As,  through  the  deep  shades  of  a  wood,  a  raging  fire  should  glance, 
Held  up  to  all  eyes  by  a  hill ;  about  his  lips  a  foam 
Stood  as  when  th'  ocean  is  enrag'd,  his  eyes  were  overcome 
With  fervour,  and  resembled  flames,  set  off  by  his  dark  brows 
And  from  his  temples  his  bright  helm  abhorred  lightnings  throws. 

Chapman  "  speaks  out  loud  and  bold,"  and  the  ancient 
world   of    Homer,    with    all    its    romantic    purity   and 
freshness,  lies  spread  at  our  feet.     It   has  often   been 
noted  with  amazement   that  Chapman,  whose  original 
poems   are   perverse   and   cloudy   to    the   last   degree, 
should  have  been  able  so  to  clarify  his  style,  and  so  to 
appreciate  the  lucidity  of  his    original,  as   to  write  a  / 
translation   of    Homer    which   a    boy   may    read   with- 
pleasure.     The    Odyssey   of  Chapman,   which,  like   the  \ 
HyniNS,   is  in  heroic   couplet,  has   never  been  such  a  ' 
general  favourite  as  the  liiad^  where  the  rolling  four- 
teen syllable  line  carried  with  it  much  of  the  melody  and 
the  movement  of  the  Greek  hexameter.     His  success, 
even  here,  is  irregular  and  uncertain ;  sometimes  he  sinks 


46  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  II. 

into  platitude  or  rushes  into  doggerel ;  sometimes  he  is 
outrageously  false  to  his  original  and  careless  of  the 
text.  But,  on  the  whole,  no  later  verse- translator  of 
Homer, — and  translators  have  been  myriad — has  sur- 
passed Chapman,  and  his  Iliad  remains  one  of  the 
ornaments  of  our  literature,  and  one  of  the  principal 
poetical  glories  of  the  Jacobean  age. 


CHAPTER   III. 

JOHN   DONNE. 

Among  the  nor-rlrprnahV  pne.ts  who  flourished  under 
James_LjJiicomparably  the  most  singular  and  influential^ 
was  the  Roman  Catholic  scholar  who  became  Dean  nf  St-. 
Paul's.  John  Donne  was  thirty  years  of  age  when  Elizabeth 
died,  and  no  small  portion  of  his  most  characteristic 
work  must  have  been  written  in  her  reign.  But  Donne 
belongs,  essentially,  to  that  of  her  successor.  In  him 
the  Jacobean  spirit,  as  opposed  to  the  Elizabethan,  is 
paramount.  His  were  the  first  poems  which  protested, 
in  their  form  alike  and  their  tendency,  against  the 
pastoral  sweetness  of  the  Spenserians.  Something  new 
in  English  literature  begins  in  Donne,  something  which 
proceeded,  under  his  potent  influence,  to  colour  poetry 
for  nearly  a  hundred  years.  The  exact  mode  in  which 
that  influence  was  immediately  distributed  is  unknown 
to  us,  or  very  dimly  perceived.  To  know  more  about 
it  is  one  of  the  great  desiderata  of  literary  history.  The 
imitation  of  Donne's  style  begins  so  early,  and  becomes 
so  general,  that  several  critics  have  taken  for  granted 
that  there  must  have  been  editions  of  his  writings  which 
have  disappeared. 


48  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  III. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  with  the  exception  of  two  ex- 

ceedingly  slight  appearances,  that  of  ten  sonnets  con- 
tributed to  Davison's  Poetical  Rhapsody  in  1602,  and 
of  An  Anatomy  of  the  World  in  161 1,  the  poems 
of  Donne  are  not  known  to  have  been  printed  until 
1633,  a  year  or  two  after  his  death.  Yet -the  refers, 
ences  to  them  in  documents  of  twenty  years  earlier 
are  frequent,  and  that  they_^wer£_\videly  .distributed- is 
certain.  This  was  doubtless  done  by  means  of  more  or 
less  complete  transcripts,  several  of  which  have  come 
down  to  our  own  day.  These  transcripts  must  have 
been  passed  from  hand  to  hand  at  court,  at  the  univer- 
sities,.in  cultured  country  houses,  and  almost  every  poet 
of  the  Jacobean  age  must  have  been  more  or  less  familiar 
with  their  tenor.  The  style  of  Donne,  like  a  very  odd 
perfume,  was  found  to  cling  to  every  one  who  touched 
it,  and  we  observe  the  remarkable  phenomenon  of  poems 
which  had  not  passed  through  a  printer's  hands  exercis- 
ing the  influence  of  a  body  of  accepted  classical  work. 
In  estimating  the  poetry  of  the  Jacobean  age,  therefore, 
there  is  no  writer  who  demands  more  careful  study  than 
this  enigmatical  and  subterranean  master,  this  veiled 
Isis  whose  utterances  outweighed  the  oracles  of  all 
the  visible  gods.  ."^ 

For  the  secrecy  with  which  the  poems  of  Donne  were 
produced  no  adequate  reason  is  forthcoming.  His 
conduct  in  other  respects,  though  somewhat  haughty, 
was  neither  cloistered  nor  mysterious.  He  was  pro- 
fuse in  the  publication  of  his  prose  writings,  and 
denied  his  verse  alone  to  his  admirers.  That  the 
tenor  of  it  clashed  with  his  profession  as  a  Churchman 


Ch.  III.]  John  Donne.  49 

has  been  put  forward  as  a  reason,  but  it  is  not  a  very 
good  one.  Donne  was  not  squeamish  in  his  sermons, 
nor  afraid  of  misconception  in  his  Pseudo- Martyr.  If 
he  had  had  scruples  of  conscience  about  his  secular 
poems  he  might  have  destroyed  them,  as  George 
Herbert  did  his.  It  is  idle  to  speculate  on  the  cause 
of  Donne's  peculiar  conduct.  It  suffices  to  record  that 
having  produced  a  quantity  of  poetry  of  extraordinary 
value,  and  intimately  welcome  to  his  generation,  he 
would  neither  publish  nor  destroy  it,  but  permitted,  and 
perhaps  preferred,  that  it  should  circulate  among  his 
most  intelligent  contemporaries  in  such  a  way  as  to 
excite  the  maximum  of  curiosity  and  mystery. 

John  Donne  was  born  in  the  city  of  London  in  1573  ; 
his  father  was  a  Welshman,  his  mother  descended  from 
the  family  of  Sir,  Thomas  More.  At  an  early  age  he 
showed  precocious  talents,  and  was  educated  with  care  at 
Oxford  first,  and  then  possibly  at  Cambridge.  Before  he 
was  fourteen  he  had  won  the  title  of  the  Pico  della 
Mirandola  of  his  age.  His  father  died  when  he  was  a 
child,  and  left  him  in  the  charge  of  a  mother  who  was  a 
Roman  Catholic  herself,  and  greatly  desired  to  see  her 
son  converted.  For  a  long  time  the  young  man  hung 
undecided,  between  the  Churches  of  Rome  and  England. 
While  in  this  uncertain  condition  of  mind,  of  which 
Izaak  Walton  has  preserved  a  record,  Donne  wrote,  or 
began  to  write,  his  Satires^  which  are  understood  to 
belong  to  the  years  1593  and  1594.  He  threw  in  his 
lot  with  the  Earl  of  Essex,  and,  in  a  brief  heat  of  soldier- 
ship, took  part  in  the  expedition  against  Cadiz,  and  in 
the  Island  Voyage.     From  the  Azores  he  passed  into 


50  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  III. 

Italy,  and  thence  into  Spain,  making  hiaiself  familiar 
with  contemporary  thought  in  those  countries.  Return- 
ing to  England,  he  became  secretary  to  the  Lord 
Chancellor,  and  eventually  fell  in  love  with  a  young 
lady  of  quality  who  was  Lady  Elsemore's  niece.  This 
attachment  lost  for  Donne  the  favour  of  his  patron,  but 
after  romantic  difficulties  the  marriage  was  performed 
in  1600,  although  the  poet  was  immediately  thrown  into 
prison. 

He  was  soon  released,  but  he  found  it  impossible  to 
regain  his  situation.  His  wife  and  he,  however,  were 
invited  by  their  kinsman,  Francis  Wolley,  to  take  up 
their  abode  at  his  country-seat  of  Pyrford,  which  they 
did.  The  next  few  years  were  spent  in  this  retirement, 
absorbed  in  intellectual  work  of  all  kinds,  and  were  in  all 
probability  those  in  which  the  radiating  heat  of  Donne's 
genius  first  began  to  make  itself  felt.  On  the  death  of 
Wolley,  the  Donnes  retired  to  a  house  in  Mitcham  in  1606, 
while  the  poet  took  lodgings  in  London  for  his  more 
frequent  communication  with  those  who,  from  all  parts 
of  Europe,  now  began  to  gather  to  listen  to  his  conversa- 
tion. In  16 ro,  James  I.,  who  "had  formerly  both 
known  and  put  a  value  upon  his  company,  and  had  also 
given  him  some  hopes  of  a  state  employment,  being 
always  much  pleased  when  Mr.  Donne  attended  him," 
suddenly  adjured  him  to  enter  the  ministry.  Donne 
declined  to  do  so  on  the  spot,  but  from  that  time  forth 
he  gave  his  special  attention  to  "  an  incessant  study  of 
textual  divinity,"  and  in  1615,  at  the  age  of  forty-two, 
he  took  holy  orders.  He  quickly  rose  to  be  Dean  of 
St.  Paul's,  a  post  which  he  held  for  nearly  nine  years, 


Ch.  III.]  John  Dojine.  5 1 

dying  on  the  31st  of  Mcarch,  163 1,  of  a  consumption.  At 
the  time  of  his  death  he  was,  beyond  question,  the  most 
admired  preacher  in  England.  This  brief  sketch  of  the 
external  circumstances  of  Donne's  Hfe  may  be  sufficient 
for  our  purpose,  but  gives  no  idea  of  the  mysterious  dis- 
crepancies which  existed  in  his  character,  of  the  singular 
constitution  of  his  mind,  or  of  his  fiery  eccentricity. 

With  the  trifling  exceptions  which  have  been  mentioned 
above,  the  poems  of  Donne  were  not  published  until 
after  his  death.  The  first  edition,  the  quarto  of  1633, 
is  very  inaccurate  and  ill-arranged;  the  octavos  of  1635 
and  1639  are  much  fuller  and  more  exact.  Donne, 
however,  still  lacks  a  competent  editor.  We  have  no 
direct  knowledge  of  the  poet's  own  wish  as  to  the 
arrangement  of  his  poems,  nor  any  safe  conjecture  as  to 
the  date  of  more  than  a  few  pieces.  The  best  lyrics, 
however,  appear  to  belong  to  the  first  decade  of  James 
I.'s  reign,  if  they  are  not  even  of  earlier  composition. 
There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  the  Satires,  an  imperfect 
manuscript  of  which  bears  the  date  1593,  are  wholly 
Elizabethan.  These  are  seven  in  number,  and  belong  to 
the  same  general  category  as  those  of  Hall,  Lodge,  and 
Guilpin.  Neither  in  date  nor  in  style  do  they  belong 
to  the  period  treated  of  in  this  volume,  and  it  is  therefore 
not  necessary  to  dwell  on  them  at  great  length  here. 
They  are  brilliant  and  picturesque  beyond  any  of  their 
particular  compeers,  even  beyond  the  best  of  Hall's 
satires.  But  they  have  the  terrible  faults  which  marked 
all  our  Elizabethan  satirists,  a  crabbed  violence  alike  of 
manner  and  matter,  a  fierce  voluble  conventionality, 
a  tortured  and  often  absolutely  licentious  and  erroneous 


52  The  Jacobean  Poets,  [Cn.  III. 

conception  of  the  use  of  language.  The  fourth  is, 
doubtless,  the  best  written,  and  may  be  taken  as  the 
best  essay  in  this  class  of  poetry  existing  in  English 
literature  before  the  middle-life  of  Dryden ;  its  attraction 
for  Pope  is  well  known. 

"  The  Progress  of  the  Soul,"  as  named  by  its  author 
"  Poema  Satyricon,"  takes  its  natural  place  after  the  satires, 
but  is  conjectured  to  have  been  written  not  earlier 
than  1610.  De  Quincey,  with  unwonted  warmth,  de- 
clared that  "  massy  diamonds  compose  the  very  substance 
of  this  poem,  thoughts  and  descriptions  which  have  the 
fervent  and  gloomy  sublimity  of  Ezekiel  or  ^schylus." 
It  is  written  in  a  variant  of  the  Spenserian  stanza,  and  is 
a  hyperbolical  history  of  the  development  of  the  human 
soul,  extended  to  more  than  five  hundred  lines,  and  not 
ended,  but  abruptly  closed.  It  is  one  of  the  most  diffi- 
cult of  Donne's  writings,  and  started  a  kind  of  psycho- 
logical poetry  of  which,  as  the  century  progressed,  many 
more  examples  were  seen,  none,  perhaps,  of  a  wholly 
felicitous  character.  It  has  the  poet's  characteristics, 
however,  to  the  full.  The  verse  marches  with  a  virile 
tread,  the  epithets  are  daring,  the  thoughts  always 
curious  and  occasionally  subhme,  the  imagination  odd 
and  scholastic,  with  recumng  gleams  of  passion. 

Here  is  a  fragment  of  this  strange  production — 

Into  an  embryon  fish  our  soul  is  thrown, 
And  in  due  time  thrown  out  again,  and  grown 
To  such  vastness,  as  if,  unmanacled 
From  Greece,  Morea  were,  and  that,  by  some 
Earthquake  unrooted,  loose  Morea  swum, 
Or  seas  from  Afric's  body  had  severed 


Ch.  III.] 


John  Donne. 


53 


And  torn  the  hopeful  promontory's  head  ; 

This  fish  would  seem  these,  and,  when  all  hopes  fail, 

A  great  ship  overset,  or  without  sail 

Hulling,  might  (when  this  was  a  whelp)  be  like  this  whale. 

At  every  stroke  his  brazen  fins  do  take 

More  circles  in  the  broken  sea  they  make  ^^ 

Then  cannons'  voices,  when  the  air  they  tear  ; 

His  ribs  are  pillars,  and  his  high-arch'd  roof, 

Of  bark  that  blunts  best  steel,  is  thunder-proof; 

Swim  in  him,  swallow'd  dolphins,  without  fear, 

And  feel  no  sides,  as  if  his  vast  womb  were 

Some  inland  sea,  and  ever  as  he  went 

He  spouted  rivers  up,  as  if  he  meant 

To  join  our  seas  with  seas  above  the  firmament. 
*  «  *  *  ♦  * 

Now  drinks  he  up  seas,  and  he  eats  up  flocks  ; 
He  jostles  islands  and  he  shakes  firm  rocks  ; 
Now  in  a  roomful  house  this  soul  doth  float, 
And  like  a  prince  she  sends  her  faculties 
To  all  her  hmbs,  distant  as  provinces. 
The  Sun  hath  twenty  times  both  crab  and  goat 
Parched,  since  first  launch'd  forth  this  living  boat ; 
'Tis  greatest  now  and  to  destruction 
Nearest ;  there's  no  pause  at  perfection. 

Greatness  a  period  hath,  but  hath  no  station. 

Far  less  extraordinary  are  the  Epistles,  which  form  a 
large  section  of  Donne's  poetical  works.  All  through 
life  he  was  wont  to  address  letters,  chiefly  in  the  heroic 
couplet,  to  the  most  intimate  of  his  friends.  These 
epistles  are  conceived  in  a  lighter  vein  than  his  other 
writings,  and  have  less  of  his  characteristic  vehemence. 
The  earhest,  however,  "  The  Storm,"  which  he  addressed 
from  the  Azores,  possesses  his  EUzabethan  mannerism ; 
it  is  crudely  picturesque  and  licentious,  essentially  un- 
poetical.     "  The  Calm,"  which  is  the  parallel  piece,  is 


54  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cir.  III. 

far  better,  and  partly  deserves  Ben  Jonson's  high  com- 
mendation of  it  to  Drummond.  The  epistle  to  Sir  Henry 
Goodyer  is  noticeable  for  the  dignified  and  stately  manner 
in  which  the  four-line  stanza,  afterwards  adopted  by  Gray 
for  his  Elegy,  is  employed  ;  this  poem  is  exceedingly  like 
the  early  pieces  written  by  Dryden  some  fifty  years 
later.  The  school  of  the  Restoration  is  plainly  fore- 
shadowed in  it. 

Many  of  these  epistles  are  stuffed  hard  with  thoughts, 
but  poetry  is  rarely  to  be  found  in  them  j  the  style  is  not 
lucid,  the  construction  is  desperately  parenthetical.  It  is 
not  often  that  the  weary  reader  is  rewarded  by  such  a 
polished  piece  of  versification  as  is  presented  by  this 
passage  about  love  in  the  "  Letter  to  the  Countess  of 
Huntingdon." 

It  is  not  love  that  sueth,  or  doth  contend  ; 

Love  either  conquers,  or  but  meets  a  friend, 

Man's  better  part  consists  of  purer  fire, 

And  finds  itself  allowed,  ere  it  desire. 

Love  is  wise  here,  keeps  home,  gives  reason  sway, 

And  journeys  not  till  it  find  summer-way. 
!  A  weather-beaten  lover,  but  once  known, 
j   Is  sport  for  every  girl  to  practise  on. 

Who  strives,  through  woman's  scorns,  woman  to  know, 

Is  lost,  and  seeks  his  shadow  to  outgo  j 

It  must  be  sickness,  after  one  disdain. 

Though  he  be  called  aloud,  to  look  again  ; 

Let  others  sin  and  grieve  ;  one  cunning  slight 

Shall  freeze  my  love  to  crystal  in  a  night. 

I  can  love  first,  and,  if  I  win,  love  still, 

And  cannot  be  removed,  unless  she  will ; 

It  is  her  fault  if  I  unsure  remain ; 

She  only  can  untie,  I  bind  again  ; 

The  honesties  of  love  with  ease  I  do. 

But  am  no  porter  for  a  tedious  woe. 


Ch.  III.]  John  Donjie.  55 

Most  of  these  epistles  are  New  Year's  greetings,  and 
many  are  addressed  to  the  noble  and  devout  ladies 
with  whom  he  held  spiritual  converse  in  advancing  years. 
The  poet  superbly  aggrandizes  the  moral  qualities  of 
these  women,  paying  to  their  souls  the  court  that 
younger  and  flightier  cavaliers  reserved  for  the  physical 
beauty  of  their  daughters. 

The  Epithalamia  of  Donne  form  that  section  of  his 
work  in  which,  alone,  he  seems  to  follow  in  due  succes- 
sion after  Spenser.  These  marriage-songs  are  elegant  and 
glowing,  though  not  without  the  harshness  which  Donne 
could  not  for  any  length  of  time  forego.  That  composed 
for  the  wedding  of  Frederick  Count  Palatine  and  the  Lady 
Elizabeth,  in  16 13,  is  perhaps  the  most  popular  of  all 
Donne's  writings,  and  opens  with  a  delicious  vivacity. 

Hail,  Bishop  Valentine,  whose  day  this  is  ! 

All  the  air  is  thy  diocese, 

And  all  the  chirping  choristers 
And  other  birds  are  thy  parishioners ; 

Thou  marryest  every  year 
The  lyric  lark  and  the  grave  whispering  dove, 
The  sparrow  that  neglects  his  life  for  love, 
The  household  bird  with  the  red  stomacher  ; 
Thou  mak'st  the  blackbird  speed  as  soon 
As  doth  the  goldfinch  or  the  halcyon  ; 
The  husband  cock  looks  out,  and  straight  is  sped, 
And  meets  his  wife,  which  brings  her  feather-bed. 
This  day  more  cheerfully  than  ever  shine, — 
This  day,  which  might  enflame  thyself,  old  Valentine. 

The  ode  within  the  rather  stiff  setting  of  the  AUo- 
phanes  and  Idios  eclogue  is  scarcely  less  felicitous. 

The  miscellaneous  secular  poems  of  Donne  are 
generically  classed  under  the  heading  of  "  Elegies."     We 


56  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  hi. 

have  here  some  of  the  most  extraordinary  aberrations 
of  fancy,  some  of  the  wildest  contrasts  of  character 
and  style,  to  be  observed  in  literature.  They  are 
mainly  Ovidian  or  TibuUan  studies  of  the  progress 
of  the  passion  of  love,  written  by  one  w^ho  proclaims 
himself  an  ardent,  but  no  longer  an  illusioned  lover, — 
hot,  still,  but  violent  and  scandalous.  The  youth  of  the 
author  is  disclosed  in  them,  but  it  is  not  the  callous 
youth  of  first  inexperience.  He  is  already  a  past 
master  in  the  subtle  sophistry  of  love,  and  kiiows  by 
rote  "  the  mystic  language  of  the  eye  and  hand."  Weary 
with  the  beauty  of  spring  and  summer,  he  has  learned 
to  find  fascination  in  an  autumnal  face.  The  voluptuous 
character  of  these  elegies  has  scandalized  successive 
critics.  Several  of  them,  to  be  plain,  were  indeed  too 
outspoken  for  the  poet's  own,  or  for  any  decent  age. 
Throughout  it  is  seldom  so  much  what  the  unbridled 
lover  says,  as  his  utter  intemperance  in  saying  it,  that 
surprises,  especially  in  one  who,  by  the  time  the  poems 
were  given  to  the  public,  had  come  to  be  regarded  as 
the  holiest  of  men.  Even  saints,  however,  were  coarse 
in  the  age  of  James,  and  the  most  beautiful  of  all  Donne's 
elegies,  the  exquisite  "  Refusal  to  allow  his  Young  Wife 
to  accompany  him  abroad  as  a  Page,"  which  belongs  to 
his  mature  life  and  treats  of  a  very  creditable  passion,  is 
marred  by  almost  inconceivable  offences  against  good 
taste. 

Another  section  of  Donne's  poems  is  composed  of 
funeral  elegies  or  requiems,  in  which  he  allowed  the 
sombre  part  of  his  fancy  to  run  riot.  In  these  curious 
entombments  we  read  nothing  that  seems  personal  or 


Ch.  iii.J  John  Donne.  57 

pathetic,  but  much  about  "  the  magnetic  force  "  of  the 
deceased,  her  spiritual  anatomy,  and  her  soul's  *'  meri- 
dians and  parallels."  Amid  these  pedantries,  we  light 
now  and  then  upon  extraordinary  bursts  of  poetic  obser- 
vation, as  when  the  eminence  of  the  spirit  of  Mistress 
Drury  reminds  the  poet  of  a  vision,  seen  years  before  in 
sailing  past  the  Canaries,  and  he  cries  out — 

Doth  not  a  Teneriffe  or  higher  hill, 

Rise  so  high  like  a  rock,  that  one  might  think 

The  floating  moon  would  shipwreck  there,  and  sink, 

or  as  when  one  of  his  trances  comes  upon  him,  and  he 
sighs — 

when  thou  know'st  this, 
Thou  know'st  how  wan  a  ghost  this  our  world  is. 

These  lovely  sudden  bursts  of  pure  poetry  are  more 
frequent  in  the  "  Funeral  Elegies  "  than  in  any  section  of 
Donne's  poetry  which  we  have  mentioned,  and  approach 
those,  to  be  presently  noted,  in  the  Lyrics.  The  spirit  of 
this  strange  writer  loved  to  dwell  on  the  majestic  and 
gorgeous  aspects  of  death,  to  wave  his  torch  within  the 
charnel-house  and  to  show  that  its  walls  are  set  with 
jewels. 

This  may  be  taken  as  an  example  of  his  obscure 
mortuary  imagination — 

As  men  of  China,  after  an  age's  stay, 
Do  take  up  porcelain  where  they  buried  clay, 
So  at  this  grave,  her  limbeck  (which  refines 
The  diamonds,  rubies,  sapphires,  pearls  and  mines 
Of  which  this  flesh  was),  her  soul  shall  inspire 
Flesh  of  such  stuff,  as  God,  when  his  last  fire 
Annuls  this  world,  to  recompense  it,  shall 
Make  and  name  them  the  elixir  of  this  All. 


58  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  III. 

They  say,  the  sea,  when  it  gains,  loseth  too. 
If  carnal  Death  (the  younger  brother)  do 
Usurp  the  body  ;  our  soul,  which  subject  is 
To  the  elder  Death,  by  sin,  is  freed  by  this  ; 
They  perish  both,  when  they  attempt  the  just, 
For  graves  our  trophies  are,  and  both  death's  dust. 


The  presence  of  the  emblems  of  mortality  rouses 
Donne  to  an  miusual  intellectual  ecstasy.  The  latest 
of  these  elegies  is  dated  1625,  and  shows  that  the  poet 
retained  his  art  in  this  kind  of  writing  to  the  very 
close  of  his  career,  adding  polish  to  his  style,  without  any 
perceptible  falling  off  in  power. 

A  large  number  of  "  Holy  Sonnets,"  which  Izaak 
Walton  thought  had  perished,  were  published  in  1669, 
and  several  remain  still  unprinted.  They  are  more 
properly  quatorzains  than  sonnets,  more  correct  in  fpxm 
than  the  usual  English  sonnet  of  the  age — for  the  octett 
is  properly  arranged  and  rhymed — but  closing  in  the 
sestett  with  a  couplet.  These  sonnets  are  very  interesting 
from  the  light  they  throw  on  Donne's  prolonged  sympathy 
with  the  Roman  Church,  over  which  his  biographers 
have  been  wont  to  slur.  All  these  "  Holy  Sonnets  "  pro- 
bably belong  to  161 7,  or  the  period  immediately  follow- 
ing the  death  of  Donne's  wife.  In  the  light  of  certain 
examples  in  the  possession  of  the  present  writer,  which 
have  not  yet  appeared  in  print,  they  seem  to  confirm 
Walton's  remark  that  though  Donne  inquired  early  in 
life  into  the  differences  between  Protestantism  and 
Catholicism,  yet  that  he  lived  until  the  death  of  his 
wife  without  religion. 

A  pathetic  sonnet  from  the  Westmoreland  manuscript, 


Ch,  III.]  JoJm  Donne,  59 

here  printed  for  the  first  time,  shows  the  effect  of  that 
bereavement  upon  him — 

Since  she  whom  I  loved  hath  paid  her  last  debt 
To  Nature,  and  to  hers  and  my  good  is  dead, 
And  her  soul  early  into  heaven  vanished. — 

Wholly  on  heavenly  things  my  mind  is  set. 

Here  the  admiring  her  my  mind  did  whet 

To  seek  thee,  God ;  so  streams  do  show  their  head, 
But  tho'  I  have  found  thee,  and  thou  ray  thirst  hast  fed, 

A  holy  thirsty  dropsy  melts  me  yet. 

But  why  should  I  beg  more  love,  when  as  thou 
Does  woo  my  soul  for  hers,  off' ring  all  thine  : 

And  dost  not  only  fear  lest  I  allow 

My  love  to  Saints  and  Angels,  things  divine. 

But  in  thy  tender  jealousy  dost  doubt 

Lest  this  World,  Flesh,  yea  Devil  put  thee  out  ? 

The  sonnet  on  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary,  however, 
has  probably  been  attributed  to  Donne  by  error;  the 
more  likely  name  of  Constable  has  been  suggested  as 
that  of  its  author. 

In  his  other  divine  poems,  also,  the  Roman  element  is  " 
often  very  strong,  and  the  theology  of  a  cast  which  is  far 
removed  from  that  of  Puritanism.  In  the  very  curious 
piece  called  "  The  Cross,"  he  seems  to  confess  to  the  use 
of  a  material  crucifix,  and  in  "A  Litany"  he  distinctly 
recommends  prayer  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 

"  That  she-cherubim  which  unlocked  Paradise." 

All  these  are  matters  which  must  be  left  to  the  future 
biographers  of  Donne,  but  which  are  worthy  of  their 
closest  attention  in  developing  the  intricate  anomalies 
of  his  character. 

We  have  now,  by  a  process  of  exhaustion,  arrived  at 


6o  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  III. 

what  is  the  most  interesting  of  the  sections  of  Donne's 
poetry,  his  anjatory  lyrics.  These  are  about  seventy  in 
number,  and  so  far  ^q  thp  <;raritY  Pvif^pnrp  ran  be 
depended  upon,  belong  to  various  periods  from  his 
twentieth  to  hTs~tKirty"-fifth  year.  The  series,  as  we  now 
Fold  it,  begins  with  the  gross  and  offensive  piece  of 
extravagance  called,  "The  Flea,"  but  is  followed  by 
"The  Good-Morrow,"  which  strikes  a  very  different  note. 

As  a  rnlp^f-hp<;p  poprtr^  nff  PYtrf>mply  pe.r?u\nalj  confidential, 

and  vivid  ;  the  stamjuifLiifp.  is  niL-tham.-  None  the  less, 
while  confessing  with  extraordinary  frankness  and  clear- 
ness the  passion  of  the  writer,  they  are  so  reserved  in 
detail,  so  immersed  and  engulphed  in  secrecy,  that  no 
definite  conjecture  can  be  hazarded  as  to  the  person,  or 
persons,  or  the  class  of  persons,  to  whom  they  were 
addressed.  One  or  two  were  evidently  inspired  by 
Donne's  wife,  others  most  emphatically  were  not,  and 
in  their  lawless,  though  not  gross,  sensuality,  remind  us 
of  the  still  more  outspoken  *'  Elegies."  In  spite  of  the 
alembicated  verbiage,  the  tortuousness  and  artificiality  of 
the  thought,  sincerity  burns  in  everj^  stanza,  and  the 
most  exquisite  images  lie  side  by  side  with  monstrous 
conceits  and  ugly  pedantries. 

A  peculiarity  of  thje-lyrics-is-that  scarcely  two  of  the 
seventy  are  written  in  the  same  verse-form.  Donne 
evidentFy  laidhjmself  out  tQ_.iriyent  elaborate  and  far- 
fetched metres.  He  was  imitated  in  this  down  to  the 
Restoration,  when  all  metrical  effects  tended  to  merge 
in  the  heroic  couplet.  But  of  the  innumerable  form- 
inventions  of  Donne  and  of  his  disciples  scarcely  one 
has   been  adopted  into   the  language,   although  more 


Ch.  III.] 


John  Donne. 


6i 


than   one,  by   their  elegance  and   melody,  deserve   to 
be  resumed. 

This  exemplifies  one  of  the  prettiest  of  his  stanza- 
forms — 

If  thou  be'st  born  to  strange  sights, 

Things  invisible  to  see, 
Ride  ten  thousand  days  and  nights, 

Till  age  snow  white  hairs  on  thee 
Thou,  when  thou  return'st,  wilt  tell  ; 
All  strange  wonders  that  befell  thee, 
And  swear 
Nowhere 
Lives  a  woman  true  and  fair. 

If  thou  find'st  one,  let  me  know  ; 

Such  a  pilgrimage  were  sweet. 
Yet  do  not, — I  would  not  go 

Though  at  next  door  we  might  meet, 
Though  she  were  true  when  you  met  her. 
And  last  till  you  write  your  letter. 
Yet  she 
Will  be 
False,  ere  I  come,  with  two  or  three. 

It  now  remains  to  examine  this  body  of  poetry  in 
general  terms,  and,  first  of  all,  it  is  necessary  to  make 
some  remarks  with  regard  to  Donne's  whole  system  of 
prosody.  The  terms  "  irregular,"  "  unintelligible,"  and 
"  viciously  rugged,"  are  commonly  used  in  describing  it, 
and  it  seems  even  to  be  supposed  by  some  critics  that 
Donne  did  not  know  how  to  scan.  This  last  supposi- 
tion may  be  rejected  at  once ;  what  there  was  to  know 
about  poetry  was  known  to  Donne.  BuJ  it  seems  cert^ 
thnt  he  intentinnnlly  intrndufrfid  a  rgv^hitioTi  infn  F.ngli<;]i 
vprdfiratinn._Ji:  was  doubtless   as  a  rebellion  against. 


62  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  Ill 

the  smooth  and_F^'^^^^^-'^<-  nprvf''f5g_Jn^'^  flow  of 
S]3enser  and  the  earliest  contemporaries  of  Shakespeare, 
that  Donne  invented  his  violent  mode  of  breaking  up 
the  line  int'o  quick:  and  sTow  beats^  The  best  critiojof 
his  own  generation,  Ben  Jonson,  hated  the  innovation, 
ap.d  told  Drummond  ^^  that  Donne,  for  not  keeping  of 
accentj  deserved  hanging."  It  is  difficult  to  stem  a 
current  of  censure  which  has  set  without  intermission 
since  the  very  days  of  Donne  itself,  but  I  may  be  per- 
mitted to  point  out  what  I  imagine  was  the  poet's  own 
view  of  the  matter. 

He  found,  as  I  have  said,  the  verse  of  his  youth,  say 
of  1590,  exceedingly  mellifluous,  sinuous,  and  inclining 
to  flaccidity.  A  five-syllabled  iambic  line  of  Spenser 
or  of  Daniel  trots  along  with  the  gentlest  amble  of 
inevitable  shorts  and  longs.  It  seems  to  have  vexed 
the  ear  of  Donne  by  its  tendency  to  feebleness,  and  it 
doubtless  appeared  to  him  that  the  very  gifted  writers 
who  immediately  preceded  him  had  carried  the  softness 
of  it  as  far  as  it  would  go.  He  desired  new  and  more 
varied  effects.  To  see  what  he  aimed  at  doing,  we  have, 
I  believe,  to  turn  to  what  has  been  attempted  in  our 
own  time,  by  Mr.  Robert  Bridges,  in  some  of  his  early 
experiments,  and  by  the  Symbolists  in  France.  The 
iambic  rhymed  line  of  Donne  has  audacities  such  as 
are  permitted  to  his  blank  verse  by  Milton,  and  although 
the  felicities  are  rare  in  the  older  poet,  instead  of 
being  almost  incessant,  as  in  the  later,  Donne  at  his 
best  is  not  less  melodious  than  Milton.  When  he 
writes — 

Blasted  with  sighs  and  surrounded  with  tears, 


Ch.  III.]  John  Donne.  6}^ 

we  must  not  dismiss  this  as  not  being  iambic  verse  at 
all,  nor, — much  less, — attempt  to  read  it — 

Blasted  with  sighs,  and  surrounded  with  tears, 
but  recognize  in  it  the  poet's  attempt  to  identify  the 
beat  of  his  verse  with  his  bewildered  and  dejected  con- 
dition, reading  it  somewhat  in  this  notation  : — 

Blasted  |  with  sighs  II  and  surrounded  |  with  tears. 

The  violence  of  Donne's  transposition  of  accent  is 
most  curiously  to  be  observ^ed  in  his  earliest  satires,  and 
in  some  of  his  later  poems  is  almost  entirely  absent. 
Doubtless  his  theory  became  modified  with  advancing 
years.  No  poet  is  more  difficult  to  read  aloud.  Such 
a  passage  as  the  following  may  excusably  defy  a 
novice  :— 

No  token  of  worth  but  Queen's  man  and  fine 
Living  barrels  of  beef  and  flagons  of  wine. 
I  shook  like  a  spied  spy.     Preachers  which  are 
Seas  of  wit  and  arts,  you  can  then  dare 
Drown  the  sins  of  this  place,  for,  for  me. 
Which  am  but  a  scant  brook,  it  enough  shall  be 
To  wash  the  stains  away. 

But  treat  the  five-foot  verse  not  as  a  fixed  and  unalter- 
able sequence  of  cadences,  but  as  a  norm  around  which 
a  musician  weaves  his  variations,  and  the  riddle  is  soon 
read — 

No  token  ]  of  worth  j  but  Queen's  |  man  I  and  fine 
Living  I  barrels  of  [  beef  and  |  flagons  of  |  wine. 
I  shook  I  like  a  spied  |  spy.  ]  Preachers  |  which  are 
Seas  I  of  wit  1  and  arts,  [  you  can  then  j  dare 
Drown  j  the  sins  |  of  this  place,  |  for,  |  for  me, 
Which  am  |  but  a  scant  j  brook,  |  it  enough  [  shall  be 
To  wash  I  the  stains  |  away. 


64  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cn.  ill. 

The  poetry  of  Donne  possesses  in  no  small  degree 
that   "unusual   and   indefinable   witchery"   which   Dr. 
Jessopp  has  noted  as  characteristic  of  the  man  himself. 
But  our  enjoyment  of  it  is  marred  by  the  violence  of 
the  writer,  by  his  want  of  what  seems  to  us  to  be  good 
taste,  and  by  a  quality  which  has  been  overlooked  by 
those  who  have  written  about  him,  but  which  seems  to 
provide  the  key  to  the  mystery  of  his  position.     Ponn£L 
was.  I  would  venture  to_suggest^^J)v  far  the  most  modern 
and  contemporaneous  of  the  writers  of  his  time.     He_ 
rejected  all  the  classical_tags  and  imagery  of  the  Eliza- 
bethans, he  borrowed  nothing  from  French  or  Italian 
tradition.     He  arrived  at  an  excess  of  actuality  in  style^  ^ 
and  it  was  because  he  struck  them  as  so  novel  and  s6~~ 
completely  in  touch  with  his  own  age  that  his  immediate 
coevals  were  so  much  fascmated  with^him.  .  ,.Hjs  poems 
are  full  of  images  taken  from  the  life__and.  habits-of^-the 
time.  ^  Where  earlier  poets  had  summoned  the  myths  j^f 
Greece  to  adorn  their  verse,  Donne^  weaves  in,  instead, 
tLe  false  zoology,  the  crude  physics  and  philosophy;_of 
his  own  fermenting  _epoch.     The  poem  called  "  Love's 
-4^  Exchange,"  is   worthy   of  careful  examination   in   this 
'^     respect.     Each    stanza  is  crowded  with  conceits,  each 
one  of  which  is  taken  from  the  practical  or  professional 
life   of  the   moment   in   which   the   poet  wrote.     This 
extreme  modernness,  however,  is  one  potent  source   of 
our  lack  of  sympathy  with  the  poetry  so  inspired.     In 
the  long  run,  it  is  the  broader  suggestion,  the  wider  if 
more  conventional  range  of  classic  imagery,  which  may 
hope  to  hold  without  fatigue  the  interest  of  successive 
generations. 


Cuylll.]  John  Donne.  65 


For  us  the  charm  of  Donne  continues  to  rest  in  his 
occasional  feUcities,  his  bursts  of  melodious  passion. 
If  his  song  were  not  so  tantalizingly  fragmentary,  we 
should  call  him  the  unquestioned  nightingale  of  the 
Jacobean  choir.  No  other  poet  of  that  time,  few  poets 
of  any  time,  have  equalled  the  concentrated  passion, 
the  delicate,  long-drawn  musical  effects,  the  bold  and 
ecstatic  rapture  of  Donne  at  his  best.  In  such  a  poem 
as  "  The  Dream,"  he  realizes  the  very  paroxysm  of 
amatory  song.  In  his  own  generation,  no  one  approached 
the  purity  of  his  cascades  of  ringing  monosyllables,  his 

For  God's  sake,  hold  your  tongue  and  let  me  love, 


or, 


or. 


or, 


I  long  to  talk  with  some  old  lover's  ghost, 
Who  died  before  the  God  of  Love  was  born, 

Oh  more  than  moon, 
Draw  not  thy  seas  to  drown  me  in  thy  sphere, 

A  bracelet  of  bright  hair  about  the  bone. 


In  these  and  similar  passages,  of  which  a  not  very 
slender  florilegium  might  be  gathered  from  his  voluminous 
productions,  Donne  reminds  us  that  Ben  Jonson  esteemed 
him  *'the  first  poet  in  the  world  in  some  things."  But 
this  quality  of  passionate  music  is  not  the  only  one 
discernible,  nor  often  to  be  discerned.  The  more 
obvious  characteristic  was  summed  up  by  Coleridge  in 
a  droll  quatrain — 

With  Donne,  whose  Muse  on  dromedary  trots, 
Wreathe  iron  pokers  into  true-love-knots  ; 
Rhyme's  sturdy  cripple,  Fancy's  maze  and  clue, 
Wit's  forge  and  fire-blast,  Meaning's  press  and  screw. 

F 


66  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  iii. 

Ill  the  use  of  these  ingenuitles^whichJl-Avas  once 
the  fashion  to  call   ^^metaphysical,"   Donne   shows  an 

amazing  pertinacitY^ He  is  never  daunted  by  the  feeling 

tliat  his  wit  is  exercised  "  on  subjects  where  we  have  no 
right  to  expect  it,"  and  where  it  is  impossible  for  us  to 
relish  iti. He_pushes  on  w_ith^  relentless  logic, — some- 
times, indeed,  past  chains  of  images  that  are  lovely  and 
appropriate  -,  but,  oftener,  through  briars  and  lianas  that 
rend  his  garments  and  trip  up  his  feet.  He  is  not 
affected  by  the  ruggedness  of  his  road,  nor'  by  our 
unwillingness  to  follow  him.  He  stumbles  doggedly  on 
until  he  has  reached  his  singular  goal^jCln  all  this 
intellectual  obstinacy  he  has  a  certain  kinship  to 
Browning,  but  his  obscurity  is  more  dense.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  the  contemporary  maligned  him  who  reported 
Donne  to  have  written  one  of  his  elegies  in  an  intentional 
obscureness,  but  that  he  delighted  in  putting  his  readers 
out  of  their  depth  can  scarcely  be  doubted.  It  is 
against  this  lurid  background,  which  in  itself  and  un- 
relieved would  possess  a  very  slight  attraction  to  modern 
readers,  that  the  electrical  flashes  of  Donne's  lyrical 
intuition  make  their  appearance,  almost  blinding  us  by 
their  brilliancy,  and  fading  into  the  dark  tissue  of 
conceits  before  we  have  time  to  appreciate  them. 

The  prominence  here  given  to  Donne  will  be 
challenged  by  no  one  who  considers  what  his  influence 
was  on  the  poetical  taste  of  the  time.  It  is  true  that 
among  his  immediate  contemporaries  the  following  of 
Spenser  did  not  absolutely  cease  at  once.  But  if  a 
study  on  the  poets  of  Charles  I.  were  to  succeed  the 
present  volume,  the  name  of  Donne  would  have  to  be 


Ch.  III.]  jfohn  Donne.  6y 

constantly  prominent.  On  almost  everything  nnn- 
dramat^  published  in  the  succeeding  generation,  from 
Crashaw  to  Davenant,  from  Carej^JO-Cowley,  thg^nmp 
of  Donae.  is  ^et.  Dry  den  owed  not  a  little  to  him, 
although,  as  time*  went  on,  he  purged  himself  more  and 
more  fully  of  the  taint  of  metaphysical  conceit.  So  late 
as  1692,  in  the  preface  to  Eleanora^  Dryden  still  held  up 
Donne  as  '*  the  greatest  wit,  though  not  the  best  poet 
of  our  nation."  His  poems  were  among  the  few  non- 
dramatic  works  of  the  Jacobean  period  which  continued 
to  be  read  and  reprinted  in  the  age  of  Anne,  and  Pope 
both  borrowed  from  and  imitated  Donne. 

So  far  as  we  trace  this  far-sweeping  influence  exercised 
on  the  poets  of  a  hundred  years,  we  have  difficulty  in 
applauding  its  effects.  Th^empassioned  sincerity,  the 
intuitions  the  clarion  note  nf  Donne-W4^i:e--mdividuarto 
himsejf  and  could  not  be  transmitted.  It  was  far  other- 
wise with  the  jargon  of  "  metaphysical "  wit,  the  trick  of 
stramed"  and  inappropriate  imagery.  These  could  be 
adopted  by  almost  any  clever  person,  and  were,  in  fact, 
employed  with  fluent  eff'ect  by  people  in  whom  the 
poetical  quality  was  of  the  slightest.  Writers  like 
Mildmay  Fane,  Earl  of  Westmoreland,  or  like  Owen 
Feltham  (in  his  verse),  show  what  it  was  that  Donne's 
seed  produced  when  it  fell  upon  stony  ground. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

BEAUMONT   AND    FLETCHER. 

There  is  no  body  of  poetical  work  which  displays  so 
characteristically — we  may  iiot  add,  perhaps,  so  favourably 
— the  qualities  of  the  Jacobean  age  as  the  mass  of  plays 
united  under  the  names  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 
These  celebrated  friends,  who  supply  the  most  illustrious 
example  of  the  art  of  literary  partnership  now  extant, 
would  probably  be  as  little  known  to  us  as  several  of 
their  scarcely  less-gifted  contemporaries,  if  they  had  not 
so  exactly  gratified  the  taste  of  their  time,  and  of  the 
generation  which  succeeded  theirs,  as  to  induce  the 
players  to  preserve  and  revise  their  writings.  Only  ten 
of  their  plays  were  printed  during  their  lives,  but  the 
folio  of  1647  saved  forty-two  others  from  a  destruction 
which  may  have  been  imminent. 

As  the  century  proceeded,  the  writings  of  these  friends 
advanced  in  popularity  far  beyond  that  of  Shakespeare's 
or  even  of  Ben  Jenson's,  and  when  the  Restoration  thought 
of  the  classic  English  drama,  it  thought  principally  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Dryden  expressed  the  common 
opinion  when  he  said  that  they  reproduced  the  easy  con- 
versation of  gentlefolks  more  ably  than  Shakespeare,  and 


Ch.  IV.]  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  69 

acquiesced  in  the  common  taste  when  he  recorded  that 
in  his  day  *'  two  of  theirs  were  acted  through  the  year, 
for  one  of  Shakespeare's  or  Jonson's."  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  preserved  their  vogue  until  the  classic  reaction 
was  completed,  and  then  their  romantic  plots  and  easy 
verse  went  suddenly  out  of  fashion.  Towards  the  end 
of  the  eighteenth  century  their  fame  revived,  but  it  has 
never  again  risen  to  its  first  commanding  height.  Yet  the 
richness  and  abundance  of  these  dramatists,  their  very 
high  level  of  merit,  and  their  perfect  sympathy  with  the 
age  in  which  they  flourished,  will  always  save  them  from 
critical  neglect.  To  praise  them  unreservedly  is  no 
longer  possible ;  but  no  one  who  loves  poetry  can  fail  to 
read  them  with  delight. 

Of  the  famous  Heavenly  Twins  of  Parnassus,  John 
Fletcher  was  the  elder.  He  was  born  in  December,  1579, 
at  Rye,  of  which  parish  his  father,  Richard  Fletcher, 
was  then  incumbent.  Dr.  Fletcher  became  successively 
Bishop  of  Bristol,  of  Worcester,  and  of  London,  dying 
when  his  son  was  seventeen,  and  an  inmate  of  Bene't 
College,  Cambridge.  Fletcher's  career  is  entirely 
obscure  to  us,  until  he  began  to  be  a  dramatist,  in  his 
thirtieth  year ;  but  it  is  probable  that,  though  not  rich,  he 
never  found  himself  so  pinched  by  poverty  as  the 
majority  of  his  dramatic  colleagues  were.  Francis 
Beaumont  was  even  more  certainly  in  easy  circumstances. 
He  was  born,  the  third  son  of  the  squire  of  Grace-Dieu 
in  Leicestershire,  towards  the  close  of  1584.  He  was 
admitted  to  Broadgates  Hall,  Oxford,  in  1597,  and 
proceeded  to  the  Inner  Temple  three  years  later.  He 
was  probably  the  author  of  Salmacis  and  Hermaphrodite, 


70  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cir.  IV. 

1602,  a  luscious  paraphrase  of  a  story  of  Ovid  told  in 
heroic  verse,  a  juvenile  performance,  but  one  of  high 
poetic  promise.  Early  in  the  century  Beaumont  became 
a  prominent  figure  among  the  wits,  and  was  little  more 
than  of  age  when  Ben  Jonson  addressed  him — 

How  do  I  love  thee,  Beaumont, 'and  thy  Muse, 

in  answer  to  the  complimentary  '*  religion  "  of  a  neatly 
turned  copy  of  verses  on  Volpofie.  Fletcher  wrote  on 
the  same  occasion,  and  their  names  are  thus  for  the 
first  time  connected.  The  famous  meetings  at  the 
Meniiaid  may  have  begun  soon  after  1606,  when 
Beaumont  composed  his  Letter  to  Ben  Jojison,  "\vritten 
before  he  and  Master  Fletcher  came  to  London."  He 
says  in  the  course  of  this  admirable  epistle  : — ■ 

What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid  ;  heard  words  that  have  been 
So  nimble  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 
As  if  that  every  one  from  whence  they  came, 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest, 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life. 

From  this  same  poem,  in  which  he  speaks  of  "scenes" 
which  are  not  yet  perfect,  we  see  that  he  was  already  a 
dramatist.  The  first  appearance  he  is  known  to  have 
made  was  in  the  comedy  of  The  Wo  man- Hater,  written 
and  anonymously  printed  in  1607.  There  is  little  doubt 
that  this  was  the  unaided  work  of  Beaumont.  It  bears 
manifest  signs  of  a  young  hand,  and  is  a  crude  miscellany 
of  prose  patched  with  soft  passages  of  romantic  blank 
verse,  llie  lVo?na?i-IJater  is  interesting  as  manifestly 
composed  under  the   influence   of  Shakespeare.      The     / 


Ch.  IV.]  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  71 

central  figure  is  a  hungry  courtier,  Lazarillo,  who  studies 
greediness  as  a  fine  art,  and  indulges  in  exquisite 
rhapsodies  of  longing  for  the  head  of  an  *'  umbrano," 
which  fishy  delicacy  evades  him  to  the  last.  The  fair 
adventuress  Oriana  is  a  species  of  Beatrice,  and  Gondarino 
an  unseemly  and  extravagant  Benedick.  The  scene  is 
laid  at  Milan;  the  verse  is  primitive,  and  the  knowledge 
of  stage-craft  as  yet  rudimentary.  None  the  less,  the 
germ  of  the  whole  Beaumont-and-Fletcher  drama  is  to 
be  traced  in  this  lax  and  luxurious  mixture  of  poetry  and 
farce. 

In  1608  Fletcher  is  believed  to  have  made  his  first 
essay  in  authorship  with  the  pastoral  tragi-comedy  of 
The  Faithful  Shepherdess^  which  is  admitted  to  be,  from 
the  purely  poetical  point  of  view,  one  of  the  best,  if  not 
the  very  best  thing  of  its  kind  in  English.  There  is  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  at  this  point  he  had  begun  to 
combine  with  Beaumont,  and  this  poem  has  all  the 
air  of  being  Fletcher's  unaided  composition,  in  spite  of 
a  phrase  of  Jonson's  to  Drummond.  The  Faithful 
Shepherdess  was  an  attempt  to  introduce  into  English 
literature  the  art  of  Tasso  and  Guarini.  It  is  an  artificial 
and  exotic  piece,  of  little  dramatic  propriety,  and  even 
when  it  was  originally  produced,  it  made  the  audience 
angry  by  its  substitution  of  re7iaissance  fancies  for 
"  Whitsun-ales,  cream,  wassail  and  morris-dances."  It 
is  an  excursion  into  the  very  fairyland  of  imagination ; 
but,  unfortunately,  Fletcher  carries  with  him  the  grossness 
and  the  moral  perversity  which  were  his  most  unfortunate 
characteristics,  and  his  wanton  shepherdesses  are  scan- 
dalously indiff'erent  to  decorum.     On  the  other  hand,  no 


72  T/ie  yacohean  Poets,  [Ch.  iv. 

work  of  the  period  abounds  with  finer  lyrical  beauties^ 
truer  touches  of  sympathy  with  nature,  or  more  artfully 
artless  turns  of  exquisite  language. 

Here  are  two  fragments  of  the  Satyr's  speeches — 

See,  the  day  begins  to  break, 
And  the  light  shoots  like  a  streak 
Of  subtle  fire  ;  the  wind  blows  cold, 
As  the  morning  doth  unfold  ; 
Now  the  birds  begin  to  rouse, 
And  the  squirrel  from  the  boughs 
Leaps  to  get  him  nuts  and  fruit ; 
The  early  lark,  that  erst  was  mute, 
Carols  to  the  rising  day 
Many  a  note  and  many  a  lay. 


Thou  divlnest,  fairest,  brightest. 
Thou  most  powerful  Maid,  and  whitest, 
Thou  most  virtuous  and  most  blessed, 
Eyes  of  stars,  and  golden-tressed 
Like  Apollo,  tell  me.  Sweetest, 
\Vhat  new  service  now  is  meetest 
For  the  Satyr  ?     Shall  I  stray 
In  the  middle  air,  and  stay 
The  sailing  rack,  or  nimbly  take 
Hold  by  the  moon,  and  gently  make 
Suit  to  the  pale  queen  of  night 
For  a  beam  to  give  them  light  ? 
Shall  I  dive  into  the  sea. 
And  bring  the  coral,  making  way 
Through  the  rising  waves  that  fall 
In  snowy  fleeces?     Dearest,  shall 
I  catch  the  wanton  fawns,  or  flies 
Whose  woven  wings  the  summer  dyes 
Of  many  colours  ?     Get  thee  fruit  ? 
Or  steal  from  heaven  old  Orpheus'  lute  ? 
All  these  I'll  venture  for,  and  more. 
To  do  her  service  all  these  woods  adore. 


Ch.  IV.]  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  73 

The  famous  partnership  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
began  about  1608,  and  lasted  until  161 1.  During  this 
brief  period  they  wrote  ten  or  eleven  of  the  plays  which 
still  exist,  and  without  doubt  not  a  few  of  their  pro- 
ductions are  lost.  In  1608*  they  brought  out  on  the 
stage  Fow  Flays  in  One,  Love's  Cure,  and  probably  A 
King  and  No  King.  In  1609  The  Scornful  Lady  ;  in  1 6 1  o 
The  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle,  The  Coxcomb,  Cupid's 
Reve7ige  and  Fhilastcr  ;  in  161 1  The  Tivo  Noble  Kinsmen, 
in  which  Shakespeare  may. have  collaborated,  The  Maid's 
Tragedy,  and  perhaps  Love's  Filgrimage.  In  161 1 
Beaumont,  who  seems  to  have  always  shrunk  from  the 
rough  publicity  of  the  stage,  made  up  his  mind  to  retire 
from  play-writing ;  he  had  never  allowed  his  name  to 
appear  on  a  title-page.  He  probably  married  Ursula 
Isley  at  this  time,  and  withdrew  to  the  country.  Perhaps 
his  health  began  to  fail ;  at  all  events,  on  the  6th  of 
March,  16 16,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-one,  he  died,  and 
was  buried,  three  days  later,  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

It  is  in  the  plays  which  have  just  been  mentioned  that 
the  peculiar  qualities  of  the  two  playwrights  are  seen  to 
the  best  advantage.  In  later  years,  whether  alone,  or  in 
collaboration  with  others,  Fletcher  produced  many  very 
fine  works,  but  they  scarcely  have  the  charm  of  those 
which  he  wrote  with  Beaumont.  When  the  posthumous 
editor  of  1647  came  to  arrange  the  dramas,  he  placed 
The  Maid's  Tragedy  at  the  head,  I^hilaster  next  to  it, 
and  A  King  or  No  King  third.  In  these  three  plays, 
and  in  The  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle,  too,  the  hand 

*  The  conjectural  arrangement  so  ingeniously  worked  out  by 
Mr.  Fleay  is  here  in  the  main  adopted. 


74  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  IV. 

of  Beaumont  appears  to  be  paramount.  There  is,  at 
least,  very  marked,  a  certain  element  which  does  not 
reappear  after  the  retirement  of  Beaumont,  and  which 
may  safely  be  attributed  to  that  writer. 

The  seventeenth  century  admired  The  Maid's  Tragedy 
to  excess,  and  it  is  true  that  it  is  full  of  poetry  which  it 
would  be  hardly  possible  to  overpraise,  a  poetry  which 
is  more  delicate,  more  spontaneous  than  the  declama- 
tory genius  of  Fletcher  could  produce  unaided. 

Here  is  part  of  a  speech  by  Aspatia  in  the  second  act — 

Then,  my  good  girls,  be  more  than  women,  wise, — 

At  least,  be  more  than  I  was,  and  be  sure 

You  credit  anything  the  light  gives  light  to, 

Before  a  man  ;  rather  believe  the  sea 

Weeps  for  the  ruin'd  merchant  when  he  roars  ; 

Rather  the  wind  courts  but  the  pregnant  sails 

When  the  strong  cordage  cracks  ;  rather  the  sun 

Comes  but  to  kiss  the  fruit  in  wealthy  autumn, 

When  all  falls  blasted  ;  if  you  needs  must  love, 

Forc'd  by  ill  fate,  take  to  your  maiden  bosoms 

Two  dead-cold  aspics,  and  of  them  make  lovers  ; 

They  cannot  flatter,  nor  forswear  ;  one  kiss 

Makes  a  long  peace  for  all ; — but  Man, 

Oh  !  that  beast,  Man  !     Come  !  let's  be  sad,  my  girls  ! 

The  plot  of  The  Maid's  Tragedy,  the  only  play  of  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher's  which  has  been  revived  on  the 
modern  stage,  is  gross,  painful,  and  improbable.  Yet 
there  is  tragic  interest  in  the  distressing  relation  of 
Evadne  and  Amintor;  while  in  the  fifth  act,  where 
Evadne  kills  the  king,  a  certain  moral  altitude  of  horror, 
unusual  with  these  poets,  is  distinctly  reached.  In 
almost  every  way,  for  good  and  ill,  The  Maid's  Tragedy 
is  a  characteristic  specimen  of  their  theatre. 


Ch.  IV.]  Beatnnont  and  Fletcher.  75 

Modem  taste  prefers  P/iilaster,  in  many  ways  an 
enchanting  performance.  The  beauty  of  the  imagery 
and  the  melody  of  the  language  here  become  something 
veritably  astonishing.  Nothing  in  Jacobean  poetry 
outside  Shakespeare  is  more  charming  than  the  sweet 
companionship,  in  the  second  act,  of  Philaster  and  the 
boy-maiden,  Bellario-Eufrasia. 

It  is  thus  that  Philaster  describes  Bellario  — 

I  have  a  boy 
Sent  by  the  gods,  I  hope  to  this  intent, 
Not  yet  seen  in  the  court ;  hunting  the  buck, 
I  found  him  sitting  by  a  fountain-side, 
Of  which  he  borrowed  some  to  quench  his  thirst, 
And  paid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears  ; 
A  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself 
Of  many  several  flowers,  bred  in  the  bay, 
Stuck  in  that  mystic  order,  that  the  rareness 
Delighted  me  ;  but  ever  when  he  turned 
His  tender  eyes  upon  'em,  he  would  weep, 
As  if  he  meant  to  make  'em  grow  again. 
Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 
Dwell  in  his  face,  I  asked  him  all  his  story  : 
He  told  me  that  his  parents  gentle  died, 
Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields, 
Which  gave  him  roots  ;  and  of  the  crystal  springs. 
Which  did  not  stop  their  courses  ;  and  the  sun, 
Wliich  still,  he  thank'd  him,  yielded  him  his  light ; 
Then  he  took  up  his  garland  and  did  show 
What  every  flower,  as  country  people  hold. 
Did  signify  ;  and  how  all,  order'd  thus, 
Express'd  his  grief ;  and  to  my  thoughts  did  read 
The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country  art 
That  could  be  wished ;  so  that  methought  I  could 
Have  studied  it.     I  gladly  entertained  him, 
Who  was  more  glad  to  follow,  and  have  got 
The  trustiest,  lovingest,  and  the  gentlest  boy 
That  ever  master  kept. 


7(>  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  IV. 

Bellario's  final  speech  to  the  king  sums  up  the 
essence  of  the  play,  and  explains  the  prettiest  of  those 
rather  awkward  disguises  of  boys  as  girls  and  girls  as 
boys,  in  which  Sidney  and  Shakespeare  had  indulged, 
but  which  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  observed  in  a  posi- 
tive extravagance.  Stronger  than  either  of  these  graceful 
romances,  is  the  tragi-comedy  of  A  King  and  No  Khig, 
which  sacrifices  force  less  to  sweetness  than  is  usual  with 
its  authors,  and  proceeds  with  great  spirit.  Arbaces,  a 
finely  designed  character,  moves  the  accomplished  type 
of  a  vaunting  egotist,  the  man  who  is  unshaken  in  the 
belief  in  himself.  Magnanimous  as  well  as  braggart, 
there  is  a  life-like  variety  in  Arbaces  more  attractive 
than  the  too-Jonsonian  figure  of  Bessus,  whose  almost 
professional  cowardice  is  so  incessant  as  to  grow  tiresome. 

Other  plays  of  this  first  and  greatest  period  which 
demand  a  special  word  are  The  K?iight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle^  with  its  extremely  early  proof  of  the  popularity  of 
Cervantes;  Four  Plays  in  One,  two  by  Beaumont  and 
two  by  Fletcher,  which  seems  to  represent  their  first 
efforts  at  combined  authorship  ;  Love's  Cure,  a  rattling, 
vigorous  comedy  of  Seville  manners,  in  which  Lucio,  a 
lad  brought  up  as  a  girl,  is  contrasted  with  Clara,  the 
martial  maid,  who  dreams  herself  a  man — Love  curing 
them  both,  and  bringing  both  back  to  nature ;  the 
sparkling  English  comedy  of  TJie  Scornful  Lady,  with 
its  domestic  scenes ;  and  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen,  a. 
stirring  but  ill-constructed  dramatization  of  Chaucer,  to 
which  the  shadow  of  the  name  of  Shakespeare,  and  a 
certain  indisputable  strength  in  the  first  act,  have 
directed  a  somewhat  exaggerated  amount  of  attention. 


Cii.  IV.]  Bcainnont  and  Fletcher.  77 

The  song  with  which  it  opens  can  scarcely  but  be  !iy 
Shakespeare  himself. 

Roses,  their  sharp  spines  being  gone, 
Not  royal  in'their  smells  alone, 

But  in  their  hue, 
Maiden  pinks,  of  odour  faint, 
Daisies  smell-less,  yet  most  quaint,    ^_^^_^,.^ 

And  sweet  thyme  true  ; 

Primrose,  first-born  child  of  Ve„ 

,0 


Many  springtime's  harbinger,     ty--_     ^  ^      ^->    v^,  v^ 

Marigolds  on  death-beds  blowing;  Ns,^'/-^ 
Lark-heels  trim  ;  nl  '^  r 


^Yith  her  bells  dim  ;      WTfG^ 


Oxlips  in  their  cradles  growing  ;  \v/lAi  ^ 


All  dear  Nature's  children  sweet, 
Lie  'fore  Bride  and  Bridegroom's  feet. 

Blessing  their  sense  ; 
Not  an  angel  of  the  air, 
Bird  melodious  or  bird  fair. 

Is  absent  hence. 

The  crow,  the  slanderous  cuckoo,  nor 
The  boding  raven,  nor  chough  hoar. 

Nor  chatting  pie, 
jNIay  on  our  bride-house  perch  or  sing, 
Or  with  them  any  discord  bring. 

But  from  it  fly. 

Whether  Beaumont  withdrew  entirely  in  161 1,  or 
lingered  on  until  1613,  his  influence  seems  to  be  very 
slight  in  the  second  period  of  the  collaborated  plays. 
Fletcher  may  have  used  hints  suppUed  by  his  friend,  but 
in  the  main  the  plays  of  the  last  years  of  Beaumont's  life 
seem  to  be  exclusively  Fletcher's.  In  161 2  he  i^robably 
brought  out  TJie  Captain.     In  1613  The  Honest  Mans 


yS  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  IV. 

Fortune  and  The  Nice  Valour.  In  1614  The  Night- 
Walker^  Wit  iviihout  Money,  The  Womaji's  Prize,  and 
The  Faithful  Friend.  In  16 15  The  Chances.  In  16 16 
Bottducay  Valentinian,  and  The  Bloody  Brother.  In 
1 61 7  The  Knight  of  Malta  and  The  Queen  of  Corinth. 
In  1618  The  Mad  Lover,  The  Loyal  Subject,  and  The 
LLumourous  Lietitenant.  Of  these  sixteen  plays  there  is 
not  one  which  can  be  said  to  be  so  important,  either 
poetically  or  dramatically,  as  several  of  the  preceding 
series,  nor  did  Fletcher  fail,  at  a  subsequent  time,  to  rise 
to  greater  heights.  The  decline  is  so  abrupt  at  first  as 
to  mark  almost  beyond  question  the  sudden  weakness 
produced  by  the  withdrawal  of  Beaumont;  Fletcher 
learned  gradually,  but  not  without  difficulty,  to  stand 
alone.  Here  are  one  or  two  good  tragedies — Bonduca, 
The  Bloody  Brother — but  not  a  single  comedy,  unless  it 
be  The  Chances,  which  can  be  ranked  among  the  best  of 
Fletcher's.  Aubrey's  phrase,  repeated  from  Earle,  that 
Beaumont's  '*  main  business  was  to  correct  the  over- 
flowings of  Mr.  Fletcher's  wit,"  has  often  been  quoted ; 
but,  in  the  presence  of  the  phenomenon  before  us,  it  can- 
not be  credited.  Something  very  much  more  positive 
than  a  mere  critical  exercise  of  judgment  was  removed 
when  Beaumont  ceased  to  write,  and  the  versification 
alone  is  enough  to  assure  us  of  the  abundance  of  his 
actual  contributions.  The  prose-scenes  in  the  plays  of 
the  earliest  period  were  undoubtedly  Beaumont's,  and 
they  testify  to  a  vein  of  fancy  very  different  from 
Fletcher's.  It  is  noticeable,  however,  that  this  group 
of  imperfect  plays  contains  almost  all  Fletcher's  most 
exquisite  and  imperishable  songs. 


Ch.  iv.j  Beaiimont  and  Fletcher. 


79 


In  Bonduca,  a  romance  of  Roman  Britain,  Fletcher 
composed  a  tragedy  which  only  just  missed  greatness,  in 
the  manner  of  Shakespeare.  The  patriot  queen  is  well 
contrasted  with  the  soldierly  graces  of  Caratach.  The 
Bloody  Brother  was  greatly  admired  throughout  the 
seventeenth  century;  Dryden  described  it  as  the  only 
English  tragedy  "  whose  plot  has  that  uniformity  and 
unity  of  design  in  it  which  I  have  commended  in  the 
French,"  but  to  a  modern  taste  it  seems  crude  and 
harsh.  Valentiiiian^  another  early  favourite,  told  the 
story  of  Nero  under  the  guise  of  new  names  and  intrigues. 
This  class  of  tragedies  revealed  the  existence  of  masculine 
qualities  of  writing  in  Fletcher,  and  were  composed  with 
spirit  and  fervour.  He  was,  however,  to  attain  greater 
sureness  of  execution,  and  the  plots  of  these  melodramas 
display  the  results  of  haste  and  want  of  judgment.  The 
individual  speeches,  and  some  scenes,  possess  great 
beauty;  the  general  texture  is  improbable  and  dis- 
agreeable. The  comedies  of  this  group  are  marked 
by  a  sort  of  frenzied  gaiety  which  is  almost  delirious, 
and  which  too  frequently  degenerates  into  horseplay. 
They  seem  all  farce  and  whimsies,  decked  out,  to  be 
sure,  in  laces  and  ribands  of  very  pretty  poetry,  but 
essentially  volatile. 

At  the  very  moment  when  we  become  certain  that  the 
judgment  of  Beaumont  was  completely  withdrawn  from 
censuring  the  productions  of  his  friend,  we  are  aware 
that  another  talent  is  summoned  to  Fletcher's  assistance. 
About  1619  Philip  Massinger,  an  Oxford  man  of  mature 
years,  adopted  the  profession  of  dramatist,  and  began  to 
work  in  conjunction  with  Fletcher.     The  circumstances 


So  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  iv. 

of  his  life  will  be  dealt  with  in  a  later  chapter,  when  we 
come  to  treat  his  independent  work.  It  is  certain  that 
at  first  he  aimed  at  nothing  more  ambitious  than  the 
alteration  and  the  completion  of  the  plays  of  others.  His 
collaboration  seems  not  merely  to  have  been  welcome  to 
Fletcher,  but  extremely  stimulating,  and  for  two  years  he 
and  Massinger  wrote  with  great  assiduity  a  group  of  plays 
which  appear  in  the  so-called  Beaumont-and-Fletcher 
collection.  The  main  plays  of  this  conjectural  third 
group  (1619-20)  are  Sir  John  van  Olden  Ba'rnaveldt, 
The  Laws  of  Candy,  The  Custom  of  the  Country,  The 
Double  Marriage,  The  Little  French  Lawyer,  The  False 
One,  Women  Pleased,  and  A  Very  JVoman.  Of  these 
there  is  Uttle  to  be  said  for  the  five  first,  in  which 
Fletcher  strikes  us  as  careless  and  Massinger  still  timid. 
The  three  last  deserve  separate  attention. 

In  The  False  One,  which  deals  with  the  familiar  story 
of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  the  oratorical  poetry  of 
Fletcher  rises  to  its  sublimest  altitude.  The  action 
of  the  piece  is  slow,  and  we  are  constantly  tempted 
to  regret  Shakespeare's  magnificent  evolution.  But  of 
the  grasp  of  character,  the  elevated  conception  of  the 
principal  figures,  and  the  charm  of  broad  and  melodious 
poetry  thrown  like  antique  raiment  about  them,  there 
can  be  no  two  opinions.  Women  Pleased,  though  the 
scene  is  laid  in  Florence,  is  a  comedy  of  contemporary 
English  life,  full  of  agreeable  humours.  Bomby,  the 
Puritan,  who  dances  to  "  the  pipe  of  persecution,"  and 
tries  to  stop  the  morris-dances,  is  a  delightful  creation, 
and  is  not  too  mechanically  insisted  on.  The  whole  of 
the   fourth  act   is  very  poetically  conceived.       A    Very 


Cii,  IV.]  Beaumont  and  FleicJicr.  8i 

Woman  is  now  more  commonly  treated  as  mainly  the 
work  of  Massinger. 

According  to  Mr.  Fleay's  computation,  the  arrangement 
between  Fletcher  and  Massinger  was  abruptly  suspended 
from  September,  1620,  till  March,  1622.  If  this  be  so, 
we  may  with  a  certain  plausibility  name  a  series  of  plays 
as  having  been  written  in  those  months  by  Fletcher 
unaided.  These  are  Monsieur  Thomas^  Thierry  and 
Theodoret^  The  Island  Princess^  The  Pilgrim^  and  The 
Wild  Goose  Chase.  It  appears,  at  all  events,  that  no 
hand  but  Fletcher's  was  at  work  on  these  five  plays,  and 
they  are  of  so  high  an  excellence  as  to  make  us  regret 
that  his  haste  or  his  idleness  led  him  so  often  to  lean 
upon  others,  instead  of  trusting  to  his  own  admirable  re- 
sources. Thierry  afid  Thcodoret  is  commonly  admitted  to 
be  the  best  of  Fletcher's  tragedies.  The  childless  King  of 
France,  who  is  warned  to  slay  the  first  woman  whom  he 
meets  proceeding  at  sunrise  from  the  temple  of  Diana, 
is  confronted  with  the  veiled  figure  of  his  own  beloved 
wife,  Ordella.  This  Lamb  considered  to  be  the  finest 
scene  in  Fletcher,  and  Ordella  his  *'  most  perfect  idea  of 
the  female  heroic  character."  The  Wild  Goose  Chase,  in 
like  manner,  is  one  of  the  brightest  and  most  coherent 
of  Fletcher's  comedies,  a  play  which  it  is  impossible  to 
read  and  not  be  in  a  good  humour.  The  central  in- 
cident of  Monsieur  Thomas,  a  middle-class  Don  Juan 
brought  to  summary  justice,  is  too  gross  for  modern 
readers ;  but  the  play  is  admirably  worked  out  as  a 
comical  conception,  and  adorned  with  a  bevy  of  pleasing 
and  indignant  girls. 

The  final  group  of  the  plays  vdiich  are  commonly  bound 

G 


82  TJie  jfacobeaji  Poets.  [Cii.  IV. 

up  together  as  the  works  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  is 
the  most  difficult  to  arrange  and  appreciate.  Massinger 
may  have  returned  to  Fletcher  in  1622,  and  may  have 
been  concerned  that  year  in  The  Prophetess^  The  Sea 
Voyage,  The  Spanish  Curate,  and  The  Beogar's  Bush. 
Of  these  the  last  alone  is  important ;  it  is  a  very  odd 
play,  full  of  curious  and  fantastic  stuff,  and  has  had 
warm  admirers.  Coleridge  said  of  The  Beggar's  Bush^ 
"I  could  read  it  from  morning  to  night;  how  sylvan  and 
sunshiny  it  is  ! "  It  is  a  Flemish  comedy,  in  which  the 
ragged  regiment  are  introduced  using  their  cant  phrases 
and  discovering  their  cozening  tricks.  In  1623  Fletcher 
seems  to  have  joined  with  some  one  who  was  not 
Massinger,  but  whom  it  would  be  hazardous  to  name 
with  certainty,  in  writing  Wit  at  Several  Weapons  and 
The  Maid  of  the  Mill,  the  first  an  English,  and  the 
second  a  Spanish  comedy,  trembling  on  the  borderland 
of  farce. 

At  this  point  the  career  of  Fletcher  becomes  in- 
distinct to  us,  but  it  is  very  interesting  to  observe 
that  his  genius  seems  to  have  deepened  and  brightened 
to  the  last,  for  his  very  latest  plays,  probably  produced 
in  1624,  are  second  to  nothing  of  the  same  kind 
written  through  the  long  course  of  his  career.  These 
are  the  comedies  of  A  Wife  for  a  Month,  and  Rule 
a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife.  These  are  much  less 
farcical  than  the  comic  pieces  which  had  preceded  them, 
and  rest  on  a  solid  basis  of  invention.  When  the  poet 
composed  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife,  he  must  have 
been  worn  with  a  career  of  persistent  and  laborious  in- 
vention, yet  nowhere   in   the  mass  of  his  voluminous 


Gil.  IV.]  Beauinont  and  Fletcher.  83 

writings  is  the  wit  more  fresh,  the  language  more  ex- 
quisite, elastic,  and  unexpected,  or  the  evolution  of 
character  more  delicate. 

We  may  be  permitted  to  hope  that  his  anxieties  were 
relaxed  for  some  months  before  his  death.  But  all  we 
know  is  what  Aubrey  has  retailed,  that  Fletcher  died  of 
the  plague  on  the  19th  of  August,  1625,  and  that, 
*'  staying  for  a  suit  of  clothes  before  he  retired  into  the 
country,  Death  stopped  his  journey  and  laid  him  low." 
He  was  buried  in  the  Church  of  St.  Saviour's,  South wark, 
in  a  grave  which  was  opened  fourteen  years  later  to 
receive  Philip  Massinger.  The  epitaph  of  Sir  Aston 
Cockayne  relates  that — 

Plays  they  did  write  together,  were  great  friends, 
And  now  one  grave  includes  them  in  their  ends  ; 
Two  whom  on  earth  nothing  could  part,  beneath 
Here  in  their  fame  they  live,  in  spite  of  death. 

Aubrey  relates  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  that  "  they 
lived  together  on  the  Bankside,  not  far  from  the  play- 
house, both  bachelors,  had  the  same  clothes,  cloak,  etc., 
between  them."  Fuller  tells  a  story  of  their  joint  com- 
position, probably  in  some  tavern,  and  the  ejaculation, 
'^  I'll  kill  the  king,"  being  overheard  and  mistaken  for 
high  treason  against  James  I. 

The  aims  which  actuated  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
were  so  lofty,  and  their  actual  performance  so  huge  in 
extent,  and  uniformly  ambitious  in  effort,  that  we  are 
bound  to  judge  them  by  no  standard  less  exacting  than 
the  highest.  Their  resolute  intention  was  to  conquer  a 
place  in  the  very  forefront  of  English  Hterature,  and  for 
a  time  they  seemed  unquestionably  to  have  ?ucceeded  in 


84  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  IV. 

so  doing.     For  a  generation  after  the  death  of  Fletcher, 
it    might    reasonably   be    mooted  whether    any   British 
writer     of     poetry    had     excelled    them.       After    the 
Restoration,  although  their   popularity  continued,  their 
reputation  with  the  critics  began  to  decline,  and  no  one 
will  again  name  them  with  poets  of  the  first  class.     They 
take,  and  will  retain,  an  honourable  position  in  the  second 
rank,  but  in  the  first  they  can  never  again  be  placed. 
The  conditions  of  their  time  seriously  affected  them.    The 
highest  point  of  poetic  elevation  had  been  reached,  and 
the  age,  brilliant  as  it  was,  was  one  of  decadence.     It 
would  have  been  possible  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher — 
as  still  later  on,  when  the  incline  was  still  more  ,rapid,  it 
yet  was  to  Milton — to  resist  the  elements  of  decay,  to  be 
pertinaciously  distinguished,    austere,   and   noble.     But 
they  had  not  enough  strength  of  purpose  for  this ;  they 
gave  way  to  the  stream,  and  were  carried  down  it,  con- 
tenting themselves  with  flinging  on  it,  from  full  hands, 
profuse  showers  of  lyrical  blossoms.      They  had  to  deal 
with  a  public  which  had  cultivated  a  taste  for  the  drama, 
and  Hked  it  coarse,  bustling,  and  crude.       They  made  it 
their  business  to  please  this  public,  not  to  teach  or  lead 
it,  and  the  consequence  was  that  they  sacrificed  to  the 
whimsies  of  the  pit  all  the  proprieties,  intellectual,  moral, 
and  theatrical. 

It  is  a  testimony  to  the  talents  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  that  we  do  not  compare  them  with  any  one 
but  Shakespeare.  Yet  this  is  a  test  which  they  endure 
with  difficulty.  There  are  many  scenes  in  which  the 
superficial  resemblance  is  so  striking  that  we  cannot 
hesitate  to  suppose  that  they  were  writing  in  conscious 


Ch.  IV.]  Beattmont  and  Fletcher.  85 

rivalry  with  their  greatest  contemporary.  But  it  would 
be  hard  to  point  to  a  single  instance  in  which  he  had  not 
a  complete  advantage  over  them.  They  move  too 
suddenly  or  too  slowly,  they  are  too  fantastic  for  nature, 
or  too  flat  for  art,  they  are  "  making  up,"  while  he  seems 
simply  painting  straight  from  the  heart.  It  may  perhaps 
be  said,  without  injustice  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  that 
they  differ  from  Shakespeare  in  this,  that  he  is  true 
throughout,  and  in  relation  to  all  the  parts  of  the  piece, 
while  they  are  satisfied  if  they  are  true  in  isolated 
instances.  Their  single  studies  of  a  passion  are  often 
just  and  valuable  in  themselves,  but  they  are  almost 
always  false  to  the  combination  in  which  the  poets  place 
them.  What  could  be  fairer  or  more  genuine  than  the 
virtuous  enthusiasm  of  Leucippus,  what  more  unnatural 
and^  ridiculous  in  relation  to  the  other  personages  which 
animate  the  tragedy  of  Cujyid's  Revenge? 

The  great  twin-brethren  of  Jacobean  poetry  have 
many  tricks  which  sink  into  conventions,  and  soon 
cease  to  please  us.  The  incessant  masquerade  of 
girls  as  men,  and  boys  as  maidens,  is  one  of  them; 
we  are  fortunate  when  the  girl  disguised  as  a  man 
(and,  of  course,  acted,  in  those  days,  by  a  boy),  does 
not  assume  a  still  further  disguise  as  a  woman.  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher's  violent  statement  of  moral 
problems  which  they  have  not  the  imagination  nor  the 
knowledge  of  the  heart  needful  to  unravel  is  a  constant 
source  of  weakness;  the  looseness  of  their  desultory 
plots,  their  hasty  scheme  in  which,  as  Hazlitt  has  said, 
'' everything  seems  in  a  state  of  fermentation  and 
effervescence,"  their  brazen  recommendation  of  purely 


S6  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [dr.  IV. 

sensuous  forces,  their  terrible  facility  and  carelessness 
— all  these  are  qualities  which  hold  them  back  when 
they  attempt  the  highest  things,  and  it  is  sadly  true  that 
these  eminent  poets  and  all-accomplished  playwrights 
have  not  left  a  single  play  which  can  be  called  first-rate. 
If,  however,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  are  severely 
judged  at  the  strictest  literary  tribunal,  they  are  none 
the  less  poets  of  an  admirable  excellence.  Coleridge 
wished  that  they  had  written  none  but  non-dramatic 
poetry,  an  expression,  no  doubt,  of  his  sense  of  the  beauty 
and  propriety  of  their  serious  verse  as  compared  with 
the  meretricious  rattle  of  what  they  designed  to  tickle 
the  groundlings.  It  is  not  merely  that  their  lyrics — their 
songs  and  masques  and  dirges — are  so  peculiarly  exquisite, 
but  that  their  soliloquies,  for  pure  poetry,  are  unsurpassed 
in  English  dramatic  literature.  The  poetry  does  not 
always  seem  in  place,  nor  does  it  aid  the  evolution  of  the 
scenes,  but  in  itself,  in  its  relaxed  and  palpitating  beauty, 
its  sweetness  of  the  hothouse,  it  is  a  delicious  thing. 
The  germs  of  the  ruin  of  English  prosody,  of  the 
degeneracy  of  English  fancy,  are  in  it,  and  they  soon 
begin  to  fructify,  but  in  the  meantime  the  perfumed 
exotic  is  charming.  Few  dramatists  can  be  quoted  from 
with  so  much  effect  as  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  or  in 
that  form  are  more  enticing,  or  excite  curiosity  more 
acutely.  The  air  they  breathe  is  warm  and  musky,  their 
star  is  "  Venus,  laughing  with  appeased  desire,"  to  young 
readers  they  appear  divinely  satisfying  and  romantically 
perfect.  But  deeper  study  does  not  further  endear  them, 
and  the  adult  reader  turns  from  them,  with  regret,  to 
cultivate  sterner  and  purer  students  of  the  heart.     They 


Ch.  IV.]  Field.  87 

are  not  quiet  enough ;  we  weary  of  their  incessant 
''tibia  orichalco  vincta,"  and  turn  to  simpler  and  serener 
masters.  Yet  even  in  their  noisiness  and  their  turbidity 
they  were  children  of  their  age,  and,  when  all  is  said, 
they  were  of  the  brood  of  the  giants. 

It  may  be  convenient  to  deal  at  this  point  with  a 
dramatist  who  was  brought  into  intimate  and  constant 
relations  with  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  as  an  interpreter 
of  their  plays  and  as  an  occasional  collaborator.  Of 
Nathaniel  Field  we  form  a  more  definite  notion  than  of 
any  of  the  other  minor  playwrights  of  his  time.  We 
possess  at  Dulwich  a  striking  portrait  of  him,  and  the 
incidents  of  his  career  are  well  defined.  He  was  born  in 
London  in  October,  1587,  his  father  dying  six  months 
later.  In  1597  the  child  Avas  apprenticed  to  a  stationer, 
being  meanwhile  educated  at  Merchant  Taylors'  School ; 
but  at  twelve  years  of  age  we  find  that  he  was  taken 
away  to  be  an  actor.  In  this  capacity  he  came  under 
the  notice  of  Ben  Jonson,  who  deigned  to  make  the  boy 
his  scholar,  and  to  read  Horace  and  Martial  with  him. 
Field  grew  up  with  the  instincts  of  a  man  of  letters,  and 
was  proud  of  having  acquired  Latin.  For  the  next  ten 
years  he  played  women's  parts  incessantly  in  the  dramas 
of  his  great  contemporaries,  occasionally  writing  verses 
of  his  own.  At  length,  in  161 2,  he  published  an  inde- 
pendent play,  A  Woman  is  a  Weathercock,  which  had 
probably  been  acted  two  years  before.  This  must  have 
been  immediately  followed  by  Amends  for  Ladies,  which, 
however,  was  not  published  until  16 18.  Field  wrote  a 
third  play.  The  Fatal  Dowry,  which  Massinger  completed 
and  published  in  1632. 


88  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cn.  IV. 

Field  was  admitted  to  the  Stationers'  Company  in 
1611,  and  seems  to  have  intended  then  to  become  a 
publisher.  He  carried  out  this  design  some  years  later, 
but  remained  upon  the  stage  until  about  16 19.  Chapman 
was  his  poetic  "  father,"  and  Field  seems  to  have  won 
the  affection  of  his  associates.  Of  the  close  of  his  life 
nothing  is  known  except  that  he  was  buried  on  the  20th 
of  February,  1633.  Field's  two  comedies  are  productions 
of  very  considerable  excellence,  composed  with  soUd  art, 
and  combining  some  of  the  classic  strength  of  Ben 
Jonson  with  the  sparkle  and  bustle  of  Fletcher.  Field 
is  careful  to  preserve  the  unity  of  time.  His  A  Woman 
is  a  Weathercock  is  a  satire  on  the  volatility  of  the  sex  ; 
in  Ame7ids  for  Ladies^  as  the  title  indicates,  the  author 
shows  how  firm  a  woman  can  on  occasion  remain.  The 
second  play,  which  is  the  better  of  the  two,  was  en- 
livened by  topical  allusions  to  Moll  Cutpurse,  "  the 
Roaring  Girl,"  who  was  doing  penance  at  Paul's  Cross 
when  the  play  was  brought  out.  She  was  a  favourite 
character  with  the  Jacobean  dramatists.  In  The  Fatal 
Dowry  Field  attempted  tragedy,  and  wrote  the  lugubrious 
story  of  the  unburied  Charalois  with  dignity  and  pathos. 


CHAPTER   V. 

CAMPION — DRAYTON — DRUMMOND  — SIR  JOHN  BEAUMONT. 

In  this  chapter  we  deal  with  certain  poets,  of  very 
varied  excellence,  in  whom  the  tradition  of  Elizabeth 
survived,  although  not  in  the  Spenserian  form.  It  may 
be  convenient  to  begin  with  one  who  has  been  till  lately 
almost  unknown,  but  who,  since  1889,  and  under  the 
auspices  of  Mr.  A.  H.  Bullen,  has  come  to  take  his  place 
at  the  forefront  of  the  lyrical  poets  of  the  beginning  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  Of  the  exquisite  genius  of 
Thomas  Campion  tliere  must  in  future  be  allowed  no 
question.  He  was  born  about  1567,  belonged  in  early 
youth  to  the  society  of  Gray's  Inn,  practised  as  a 
physician,  and  ended  as  a  professional  musician.  He 
published  a  volume  of  Latin  epigrams  in  1595.  But  it 
was  not  until  1601  that  his  first  Book  of  Airs  appeared, 
the  forerunner  of  successive  volumes  of  lyric  verse  set 
to  music.  He  wrote  a  masque  for  Sir  James  Hay's 
wedding  in  1607,  and  three  more  of  these  entertainments 
in  16 13.  Two  Books  of  Airs  appeared  in  16 10,  and 
two  more  in  161 2.  It  is  from  these  pubHcations,  and 
from  the  song-books  of  his  contemporaries,    that   Mr. 


90  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cir.  V. 

Bullen  has  collected  the  rich  harvest  of  Campion's 
poetical  works. 

One  of  Campion's  acute  friends  observed  of  his 
"  happy  lyrics"  that  they  were  "strained  out  of  art  by 
nature  so  with  ease."  These  words  very  well  express 
the  adroit  and  graceful  distinction  which  marks  his 
verse.  His  taste  was  at  once  classical  and  romantic. 
So  classical  was  it,  that  for  a  while  he  was  beguiled  away 
from  rhyme  altogether,  and  gave  the  sanction  of  his 
delicate  accomplishment  to  those  who,  like  the  earlier 
Areopagites,  desired  to  do  away  with  the  ornament  of 
rhyme,  and  to  write  pure  English  sapphics  and  alcaics. 
Fortunately,  this  erroneous  judgment  did  not  prevail, 
and  Campion  returned  to  those  numbers  in  which  he 
had  so  eminent  a  skill. 

His  knowledge  of  music  and  the  exigencies  of  the  airs 
to  which  he  wrote,  gave  great  variety  and  yet  precision 
to  his  stanzaic  forms  and  his  rhyme-arrangements.  In 
certain  respects,  he  reminds  us  of  Fletcher  at  his  best, 
and  as  Fletcher  was  the  younger  man,  it  is  probable  that 
he  wrote  some  of  his  lyrics  under  Campion's  influence. 
But  no  other  writer  of  the  time  arrived  at  anything 
approaching  to  Campion's  throbbing  melody  in  such 
pieces  as  that  beginning — 

Follow  your  saint,  follow  with  accents  sweet, 
Haste  your  sad  notes,  fall  at  her  Hying  feet, 

or  his  quaint,  extravagant  grace,  as  in — 

I  care  not  for  these  ladies. 

That  must  be  wooed  and  prayed  : 

Give  me  kind  Amaryllis, 
The  wanton  country  maid. 


Cii.  v.]  Campion.  91 

Nature  art  disdaincth, 
Her  beauty  is  her  own  ; 

Her  when  we  court  and  kiss, 

She  cries  "  Forsooth,  let  go  I  " 
But  when  we  come  where  comfort  is, 
She  never  will  say  "  No  !  " 

or  his  unexpected  turns  of  metre,  as  in — 

All  you  that  will  hold  watch  with  love, 

The  fairy  queen  Proserpina 
Will  make  you  fairer  than  Dione's  dove  ; 
Roses  red,  lilies  white, 

And  the  clear  damask  hue 
Shall  on  your  cheeks  alight ; 
Love  will  adorn  you. 

The  songs  of  Campion  are  commonly  of  an  airy, 
amatory  kind,  plaintive,  fanciful,  and  sensuous.  But 
not  infrequently  he  strikes  another  key,  and  comes 
closer  to  the  impassioned  sincerity  of  Donne.  The 
following  song,  from  the  first  Book  of  Airs,  is  of  a  very 
high  quality — 

.When  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  underground, 

And  there  arrived,  a  new  admired  guest, 
The  beauteous  spirits  do  engirt  thee  round. 

White  lope,  blithe  Helen,  and  the  rest, 
To  hear  the  stories  of  thy  finished  love, 
From  that  smooth  tongue  whose  music  hell  can  move  ; 

Then  wilt  thou  speak  of  banqueting  delights, 

Of  masques  and  revels  which  sweet  youth  did  make, 

Of  tourneys  and  great  challenges  of  knights, 
And  all  those  triumphs  for  thy  beauty's  sake  ; 

When  thou  hast  told  these  honours  done  to  thee, 

Then  tell,  O  tell,  how  thou  didst  murder  me. 


92  The  Jacobean  Poets,  [Ch.  v. 

This   may  naturally  be    put   by   the  side   of    "  The 
Apparition  "  of  Donne. 

The  four  existing  masques  of  Campion  are  skilful  and 
gorgeous ;  they  would  be  the  best  in  English,  if  we  could 
exclude  the  rich  repertory  of  Ben  jonson.  They  give 
us  an  opportunity  of  judging  that  Campion  would,  had 
he  chosen  to  do  so,  have  excelled  in  the  more  elaborate 
kinds  of  poetry.  His  heroic  verse,  especially  in  the 
Lords'  Masque^  is  full  and  stately,  and  deformed  by  none 
of  those  crabbed  distortions  of  accentuation  which  m.any 
of  his  contemporaries  affected.  Campion's  Obsei-vations 
ill  the  Art  of  English  Poetry,  published  in  1602,  is  a 
learned  treatise  on  prosody,  which  has  been  unduly 
neglected.  None  of  the  experiments  which  it  contains, 
however, — neither  its  "iambic  dimetre,"  nor  its  "ana- 
creontic licentiate — "  are  fit  to  compare  with  the  author's 
more  conventional  rhymed  verse.  If  an  exception  is  to 
be  found,  it  is  perhaps  in  the  following  lyric,  doubtless 
the  most  successful  copy  of  unrhymed  measure  which 
that  age  produced — 

Rose-cheeked  Laura,  come  ; 
Sing  thou  smoothly  with  thy  beauty's 
Silent  music,  either  other 
Sweetly  gracing. 

Lovely  forms  do  flow 
From  concert  divinely  framed  ; 
Heav'n  is  music,  and  thy  beauty's 
Birth  is  heavenly. 

These  dull  notes  we  sing, 
Discords  need  for  helps  to  grace  them, 
Only  beauty  purely  loving, 
Knows  no  discord  ; 


Cir.  v.]  Campion — Drayton.  93 

But  still  moves  delight, 
Like  clear  springs  renewed  by  flowing, 
Ever  perfect,  ever  in  them- 
selves eternal. 

Campion  died  early  in  1620,  and  was  buried  in  the 
Church  of  St.  Dunstan's  in  the  West,  in  London. 

If  Campion  has  hitherto  been  neglected,  the  poet  of 
whom  we  have  next  to  treat  has  enjoyed  for  two 
hundred  years  past  a  popularity,  or,  at  least,  a  nominal 
prominence,  which  is  somewhat  in  excess  of  his  merits. 
During  the  eighteenth  century,  at  least,  no  non-dramatic 
poet  of  our  period  was  so  much  read  or  so  often  re- 
printed as  Drayton.  Joseph  Hunter  expressed  no 
opinion  shocking  to  his  generation  when  he  claimed  for 
Drayton  a  place  in  the  first  class  of  English  poets.  His 
ease,  correctness,  and  lucidity  were  attractive  to  our 
elder  critics,  and  outweighed  the  lack  of  the  more 
exquisite  qualities  of  style.  If  Drayton  can  no  longer  be 
awarded  such  superlative  honours  as  were  formerly  paid  to 
him,  he  is  nevertheless  a  poet  of  considerable  originality 
and  merit,  whose  greatest  enemy  has  been  his  want  of 
measure.  His  works  form  far  too  huge  a  bulk,  and 
would  be  more  gladly  read  if  the  imagination  in  them 
were  more  concentrated  and  the  style  more  concise. 
Drayton  attempted  almost  every  variety  of  poetic  art, 
and  his  aim  was  possibly  a  little  too  encyclopedic  for 
his  gifts. 

It  is  impossible  to  yield  to  Drayton  the  position  in 
this  volume  which  his  pretensions  demand,  since  a  very 
important  portion  of  his  work  lies  entirely  outside  our 
scope.     His  career  is  divided  into  two  distinct  halves, 


94  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  V. 

and  the  former  of  these,  as  purely  Elizabethan,  calls  for 
no  detailed  consideration  here.  Michael  Drayton  was 
born  near  Atherstone,  in  Warwickshire,  in  1563.  He 
came  up  to  town  while  still  a  young  man,  and  in  the 
last  decade  of  Elizabeth  produced  divine  poems,  sonnets 
in  the  fashion  of  the  hour,  pastorals,  and,  above  all,  certain 
epical  studies  in  historical  poetry,  which  were  akin  in 
nature  to  those  produced  during  so  long  a  period,  and 
in  such  diverse  manners,  by  the  versifiers  of  the  Mirror 
for  Magistrates.  He  was  forty  years  of  age  when 
James  I.  came  to  the  throne,  and  was  already  one  of  the 
most  prominent  poets  of  the  age. 

Drayton's  earliest  act  in  the  new  reign  was  an  un- 
fortunate one.  He  hastened  to  be  the  first  welcomer 
in  the  field,  and  hurried  out  A  Gratidatory  Poem  to 
King  James.  His  zeal,  however,  went  beyond  his 
discretion ;  he  was  told  that  he  should  have  waited 
until  the  mourning  for  the  queen  was  over,  and  the  new 
king  refused  to  patronize  him.  Henceforth,  a  petulant 
note  is  discernible  in  Drayton's  writings,  the  note  of  dis- 
appointment and  disillusion.  He  was  exceedingly  active, 
however,  and  brought  out,  in  quick  succession,  fresh 
and  greatly  revised  editions  of  his  old  historical  poems, 
IVie  Baron's  Mars,  and  England's  Heroical  Epistles.  A 
new  didactic  and  religious  piece,  Moses  in  a  Map  of  his 
Miracles,  1604,  added  little  to  his  reputation;  but  the 
Oivl,  of  the  same  year,  is  a  lengthy  and  important  com- 
])osition  in  the  heroic  couplet.  The  writer  feigns,  in 
the  mediaeval  manner,  that  he  fell  asleep  under  a  tree 
on  a  May  morning,  and  heard  all  the  birds  talk- 
ing in  human  speech.     The    opening  of  the   poem    is 


Ch.  v.]  Drayton.  95 

of  a  Chaucerian  prettiness.  Among  those  birds  who 
speak — 

The  little  Redbreast  teacheth  charity, 

but  the  Linnet  and  the  Titmouse  presently  twit  the  Owl 
on  his  silence,  and  the  fiercer  birds  fall  upon  him  with 
beak  and  claw.  They  would  kill  him,  did  not  the 
Falcon  protect  him^  and  the  Eagle  come  swooping  down 
to  see  what  is  the  matter.  Then  the  Owl  speaks.  He 
has  looked  through  the  windows  of  the  Eagle's  court,  and 
seen  all  the  evil  that  is  done  there.  At  last  the  Eagle, 
having  listened  to  the  Owl's  long  satire,  flies  away,  and 
the  Owl  is  applauded  and  comforted.  This  curious 
satirical  fable  has  passages  of  great  merit ;  among  them 
is  this  pathetic  episode  of  the  Crane  : — 

Lo,  in  a  valley  peopled  thick  with  trees, 

Where  the  soft  day  continual  evening  sees. 

Where,  in  the  moist  and  melancholy  shade. 

The  grass  grows  rank,  but  yields  a  bitter  blade, 

I  found  a  poor  Crane  sitting  all  alone, 

That  from  his  breast  sent  many  a  throbbing  groan  ; 

Grov'Uing  he  lay,  that  sometime  stood  upright ; 

Maimed  of  his  joints  in  many  a  doubtful  fight ; 

His  ashy  coat  that  bore  a  gloss  so  fair. 

So  often  kiss'd  of  the  enamour'd  air. 

Worn  all  to  rags,  and  fretted  so  with  rust. 

That  with  his  feet  he  trod  it  in  the  dust ; 

And  wanting  strength  to  bear  him  to  the  springs, 

The  spiders  wove  their  webs  e'en  in  his  wings. 

Probably  in  1606,  Drayton  issued  one  of  the  most 
charming  of  his  books,  Poems  Lyric  and  Pastoral, 
consisting  of  odes,  eclogues,  and  a  curious  romance 
called  The  Man  hi  the  Moon.  The  Odes  doubtless  belong 
to  his  youth  j  they  are  particularly  happy  in  their  varied 


9<5  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  v. 

versification,  of  which  two  brief  specimens  may  suffice. 
This  stanza  exemplifies  the  "  Ode  on  the  New  Year" — 

Give  her  the  Eoan  brightness, 
^Ying'd  with  that  subtle  lightness, 

That  doth  transpierce  the  air ; 
The  roses  of  the  morning, 
The  rising  heaven  adorning, 

To  mesh  with  flames  of  hair. 

and  this  the  "  Ode  to  his  Valentine  " — 

Muse,  bid  the  morn  awake, 

Sad  winter  now  declines, 
Each  bird  doth  choose  a  make, 

This  day's  Saint  Valentine's. 
For  that  good  bishop's  sake. 

Get  up  and  let  us  see, 

What  beauty  it  shall  be, 
That  fortune  us  assigns. 

These  are  fresh  and  lively,  without  any  strong  grip 
on  thought.  By  far  the  best  of  the  odes,  however,  is 
the  noble  Battle  of  Agincourt,  which  is  Drayton's  greatest 
claim  to  the  recognition  of  posterity,  and  the  most 
spirited  of  all  his  lyrics. 

In  a  bold  preface  to  his  ''  Eclogues,"  Drayton  promises 
something  new  ;  but  these  pastorals  are  not  to  be  distin- 
guished from  Elizabethan  work  of  the  same  kind,  except 
by  the  fine  lyrics  which  are  introduced  in  the  course  of 
them.  Of  these  the  best  is  the  very  remarkable  birthday 
ode  to  Beta  in  the  third  eclogue — 

Stay,  Thames,  to  hear  my  song,  thou  great  and  famous  flood, 
Beta  alone  the  phoenix  is  of  all  thy  watery  brood, 

The  queen  of  virgins  only  she. 

The  king  of  floods  allotting  thee 


Cii.  V  ]  Drayton.  97 

Of  all  the  rest,  be  joyful  thou  to  see  this  happy  day, 
Thy  Beta  now  alone  shall  be  the  subject  of  thy  lay. 

With  dainty  and  delightsome  strains  of  dapper  virelays, 
Come,  lovely  shepherds,  sit  by  me,  to  tell  our  Beta's  praise  ; 

And  let  us  sing  so  high  a  verse 

Her  sovereign  virtues  to  rehearse, 
That  little  birds  shall  silent  sit  to  hear  us  shepherds  sing, 
Whilst  rivers  backwards  bend  their  course,  and  flow  up  to  their  spring. 

Range  all  thy  swans,  fair  Thames,  together  on  a  rank, 

And  place  them  each  in  their  degree  upon  thy  winding  bank. 

And  let  them  set  together  all, 

Time  keeping  with  the  waters'  fall, 
And  crave  the  tuneful  nightingale  to  help  them  with  her  lay, 
The  ouzel  and  the  throstle-cock,  chief  music  of  our  May. 

»  *  ♦  »  * 

Sound  loud  your  trumpets  then  from  London's  loftiest  towers 
To  beat  the  stormy  tempests  back,  and  calm  the  raging  showers, 

Set  the  cornet  with  the  flute. 

The  orpharion  to  the  lute, 
Tuning  the  tabor  and  the  pipe  to  the  sweet  violins. 
And  mock  the  thunder  in  the  air  with  our  loud  clarions. 

For  the  rest,  these  pieces  present  a  vague  but  pretty  im- 
pression of  nymphs  singing  and  dancing  in  the  flowery 
meadows  around  a  middle-aged  swain  who  deplores  to 
them  his  want  of  material  success  and  courtly  recognition. 

Passing,  for  the  moment,  the  Poly-Olbioft,  we  come  in 
1627  to  a  miscellaneous  volume,  consisting  of  seven 
independent  poetical  works  not  before  given  to  the 
public.  Of  these  two,  The  Battle  of  Agincourt  (not  to  be 
confounded  with  the  ode)  and  The  Miseries  of  Queen 
Margaret,  2iXQ.  fragments  of  that  epic  in  ottava  ;Vw^  which 
Drayton  was  always  projecting  and  never  completed. 
Nimphldia,  or  the  Court  of  Fairy,  is  a  fantastic  Uttle 

H 


9^  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  V. 

romance,  perhaps  closer  to  being  a  masterpiece  than  any 
other  which  Drayton  composed,  deahng  with  the  loves 
of  Pigwiggin  and  Queen  Mab  in  a  style  of  the  most 
airy  fancy.  The  Moon-Calf  is  as  clumsy  as  its  pre- 
decessor is  elegant  and  exquisite  ;  this  is  a  kind  of  coarse 
satirical  fable  in  the  heroic  couplet.  TJie  Quest  of 
Cinthia  is  a  long  ballad,  so  smooth,  and  it  must  be 
confessed,  so  conventional,  that  it  might  almost  have 
been  written  a  century  and  a  half  later.  The  Shepherd's 
Sirena  is  a  lyric  pastoral  of  much  lightness  and  charm, 
and  the  volume  closes  with  some  Elegies  of  various 
merit. 

At  least  as  early  as  1598,  as  we  learn  from  Francis 
Meres,  Drayton  had  designed  a  heroic  and  patriotic 
poem  of  great  extent.  It  was  to  celebrate  the  kingdom 
of  Great  Britain  with  the  exactitude  of  Camden,  but  with 
the  addition  of  every  species  of  imaginative  ornament. 
At  length,  in  16 13,  a  folio  appeared,  entitled  FoIy-OIbiori, 
"  a  chorographical  description  of  tracts,  rivers,  mountains, 
forests,  and  other  parts  of  this  renowned  isle."  This 
original  instalment  contained  eighteen  "  Songs  "  or  cantos, 
and  was  enriched  by  copious  notes  from  the  pen  of  John 
Selden,  and  a  map  to  each  "  song."  Poly-0lbio7i  was  re- 
issued in  1622,  with  twelve  new  cantos,  but  Selden  con- 
tributed no  more  notes. 

As  the  poet  says,  the  composition  of  Poly-Olbion  was 
"  a  Herculean  toil,"  and  it  was  one  which  scarcely  re- 
warded the  author.  He  had  a  great  difficulty  in  finding  a 
publisher  for  the  complete  work,  an'd  he  told  the  sym- 
pathetic Drummond — ''my  dear  sweet  Drummond" — 
that  the  booksellers  were  "  a  company  of  base  knaves." 


Cn.  v.]  Drayton.  99 

The  work  is  written  in  a  couplet  of  twelve-syllable 
iambic  lines,  in  imitation  of  the  French  Alexandrine,  but 
with  an  unfailing  coesura  after  the  third  foot,  which 
becomes  very  tiresome  to  the  ear. 

As  an  example  of  the  method  of  the  poem,  may  be 
selected  the  passage  in  which  Drayton  describes  the 
habits  of  the  aboriginal  beaver  of  South  Wales — 

]\Iore  famous  long  agone  than  for  the  sahiions'  leap, 

For  beavers  Tivy  was,  in  her  strong  banks  that  bred, 

Which  else  no  other  brook  in  Britain  nourished  ; 

Where  Nature,  in  the  shape  of  this  now-perish'd  beast. 

His  property  did  seem  to  have  wondrously  expressed  ; 

Being  bodied  like  a  boat,  with  such  a  mighty  tail 

As  serv'd  him  for  a  bridge,  a  helm,  or  for  a  sail. 

When  kind  did  him  command  the  architect  to  play. 

That  his  strong  castle  built  of  branched  twigs  and  cla^ 

Which,  set  upon  the  deep,  but  yet  not  fixed  there, 

He  easily  could  remove  as  it  he  pleas'd  to  steer 

To  this  side  or  to  that  ;  the  workmanship  so  rare, 

His  stuff  wherewith  to  build,  first  being  to  prepare, 

A  foraging  he  goes,  to  groves  or  bushes  nigh. 

And  with  his  teeth  cuts  down  his  timber ;  which  laid  by, 

He  turns  him  on  his  back, — his  belly  laid  abroad, — 

When  with  what  he  hath  got,  the  others  do  him  load. 

Till  lastly,  by  the  weight,  his  burden  he  hath  found  ; 

Then  with  his  mighty  tail  his  carriage  having  bound 

As  carters  do  with  ropes,  in  his  sharp  teeth  he  gript 

Some  stronger  stick,  from  which  the  lesser  branches  stript, 

He  takes  it  in  the  midst ;  at  both  the  ends,  the  rest 

Hard  holding  with  their  fangs,  unto  the  labour  prest. 

Going  backward,  tow'rds  their  home  their  laded  carriage  led, 

From  whom  those  first  here  born  were  taught  the  useful  sled. 

At  the  same  time,  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  entire 
originality  of  the  poem,  its  sustained  vivacity,  variety  and 
accuracy,   and  its  unlikeness   to  any  other  work  of  the 


100  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  v. 

age,  give  an  indubitable  interest  to  Foly-Olbion,  which 
will  always  be  referred  to  with  pleasure,  though  seldom 
followed  from  "  the  utmost  end  of  Cornwall's  furrowing 
beak,"  to  the  fall  of  Esk  and  Eden  into  the  Western 
Sands. 

The  confidence  of  Drayton  in  his  own  divine  mission 
is  subUme  and  pathetic.  However  unlucky  he  may  be, 
he  invariably  takes  the  attitude  of  a  poet  of  unquestioned 
eminence.  In  his  Ma?i  in  the  Moon,  the  shepherds  give 
Rowland  (Drayton's  accepted  pseudonym)  the  office  of 
their  spokesman,  because  he  was — 

By  general  voice,  in  times  that  then  was  grown, 
So  excellent,  that  scarce  there  had  been  known, 
Ilim  that  excell'd  in  piping  or  in  song. 

His  popularity  might  account  for^  yet  scarcely  excuse 
this  attitude ;  but,  in  spite  of  this  egotism,  Drayton  is 
a  writer  who  commands  our  respect.  He  is  manly 
and  direct,  and  his  virile  style  has  the  charm  of  what  is 
well-performed  in  an  easy  and  straightforward  manner. 
He  had  studied  the  earher  poets  to  good  effect.  His 
critical  knowledge  of  literature  was  considerable,  and  his 
acquaintance  with  natural  objects  exceptionally  wide. 
His  vocabulary  is  rich  and  uncommon;  he  has  a 
pleasing  preference  for  technical  and  rustic  words. 
His  variety,  his  ambition,  his  excellent  versification 
claim  our  respect  and  admiration ;  but  Drayton's  weak 
point  is  that  he  fails  to  interest  his  reader.  All  is  good, 
but  little  is  superlatively  entertaining.  His  most  perfect 
poem  was  introduced  by  him,  without  any  special 
attention  being  drawn  to  it,  in  what  is  supposed  to  be 


Ch.  v.]  Drayton,  lOi 

the  sixth  edition  of  his  Poems,  the  folio  q'  iojq.     li  is 
the  following  touching  and  passionate  sonnet : — 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  anJ  pari, — 
Nay,  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me  ; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea  glad  with  all  my  heart, 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free. 

Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again. 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows, 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  love's  latest  breath, 
When,  his  pulse  failing,  passion  speechless  lies, 
When,  faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 
And  innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, — 

— Now  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have  given  him  over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  mightst  him  yet  recover ! 

Drayton  continued  to  write  and  to  publish  verses  after 
the  death  of  James  I.,  and  did  not 'until  the  23rd  of 
December,  1631,  as  his  monument  in  Poet's  Corner  has 
it,  "  exchange  his  laurel  for  a  crown  of  glory."  Ben 
Jonson,  who  had  not  appreciated  Drayton  in  his  lifetime, 
is  said  to  have  composed  the  epitaph  graven  in  letters  of 
gold  beneath  his  bust  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Poetry  had  greatly  declined  in  Scotland  when  James 
VI.  became  James  I.  of  England.  The  monarch  him- 
self, although  in  his  own  esteem  more  than  a  prentice 
in  the  divine  art,  abandoned  the  practice  of  poetry  on 
coming  south.  There  remained,  among  his  northern 
subjects,  but  one  poet  of  really  commanding  excellence, 
William  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  a  youth  at  that 
time  still  unknown  to  fame.     Drummond  belonged  to 


102  The  yacohean  Poets.  [Cn.  v. 

the  class  of -arlistic  or  cultivated  poets,  to  that  which  is 
made  by  literature  rather  than  born  of  spontaneous 
pye^Ttiom  -.  In  the  earliest  of  his  sonnets,  Drummond 
admits  as  much  : — ''  I  first  began  to  read,  then  loved  to 
write."  But  among  poets  of  this  studious  and  literary 
kind,  he  ranks  very  high  indeed.  He  possesses  style, 
distinction,  a  practised  and  regulated  skill,  in  a  degree 
denied  to  many  of  his  more  spontaneously  gifted  fellows. 
It  would  be  a  grave  error,  in  any  estimate  of  Jacobean 
poetry,  to  underrate  this  admirable  poetic  artist. 

William  Drummond  was  born  of  ancient  Scottish 
lineage  on  the  13th  of  December,  1585.  Upon  his 
taking  his  degree  in  Edinburgh  in  1605,  he  was  sent  to 
the  Continent,  and  after  a  twelvemonth  spent  in  learning 
law  at  Bourges,  he  seems  to  have  resided  three  years 
in  Paris.  This  residence  has  left  its  imprint  on  his 
writings.  In  Paris,  at  that  time,  Ronsard,  who  had  died 
the  year  Drummond  was  born,  was  still  regarded  as  an 
almost  unquestioned  master;  Pontus  de  Tyard,  last 
survivor  of  the  Pleiade,  was  only  just  dead.  It  is  strange 
if  the  young  Scotchman  did  not  meet  with  the  vigorous 
Agrippa  d'Aubign^,  a  Protestant  and  Ronsardist  like 
himself,  for  Drummond  fell  immediately  into  the  manner 
of  the  Pleiade.  No  one  in  English,  except  the  feebler 
Barnaby  Barnes,  was  so  Gallic  as  Drummond,  whose 
best  pieces  might  have  been  translated  into  French  of 
the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century  without  raising 
any  suspicion  of  a  foreign  influence. 

In  1609  the  young  man  returned  to  Edinburgh,  and 
in  1 6 10  withdrew  to  his  romantic  and  now  classic  estate 
of  Hawthornden.      In   1613  the  death  of  Prince  Henry 


Cii.  v.]  Druinmond.  103 

drew  from  him  an  elegy,  his  earhest  pubUshed  work,  the 
Tears  on  the  Death  of  Moeliadcs,  an  artificial  and  ex- 
tremely Ronsardist  poem  in  couplets  of  considerable 
mellifiuousness,  closing  thus — 

For  ever  rest  !     Thy  praise  fame  may  enroll 
In  golden  annals,  whilst  about  the  pole 
The  slow  Bootes  turns,  or  sun  cloth  rise. 
With  scarlet  scarf  to  cheer  the  mourning  skies  ; 
The  virgins  to  thy  tomb  may  garlands  bear 
Of  flowers,  and  on  each  flower  let  fall  a  tear. 
Moeliades  sweet  courtly  nymphs  deplore. 
From  Thule  to  Hydaspes'  pearly  shore. 

Three  years  later  Drummond  issued  a  slender  volume 
of  Poems,  consisting  of  sonnets,  odes,  sextains,  and 
madrigals.  His  notion  of  the  madrigal  was  a  small 
irregular  lyric,  opening  with  a  six-syllable  iambic  line. 
This  is  a  characteristic  specimen — 

This  life,  which  seems  so  fair, 

Is  like  a  bubble  blown  up  in  the  air 

By  sporting  children's  breath, 

Who  chase  it  everywhere. 

And  strive  who  can  most  motion  it  bequeath  ; 

And  though  it  sometime  seem  of  its  own  might, 

Like  to  an  eye  of  gold,  to  be  fix'd  there, 

And  firm  to  hover  in  that  empty  height, 

That  only  is  because  it  is  so  light. 

But  in  that  pomp  it  doth  not  long  appear ; 

For  even  when  most  admir'd,  it,  in  a  thought, 

As  swell'd  from  nothing,  doth  dissolve  in  naught. 

His  sonnets,  a  form  in' which  he  is  peculiarly  successful, 
approach  more  nearly  to  perfection  of  rhyme-structure 
than  any  of  those  of  his  contemporaries,  except  perhaps 
Donne's;  but  he  is  rarely  able  to  resist  the  tempting 


104  ^/^^  Jacobean  Poets,  [Ch.  v. 

error  of  the  final  couplet.  One  or  two  long  and  glowing 
odes  of  great  merit  he  styles  "  songs."  This  first  col- 
lection of  his  poems  contains  many  lyrics  that  are  ad- 
mirable, and  few  that  are  without  dignity  and  skill.  He 
uses  flowers  and  pure  colours  like  a  Tuscan  painter,  and 
strikes  us  as  most  fantastic  when  he  essays  to  write  in 
dispraise  of  beauty,  since  no  poet  of  his  time  is  so 
resolute  a  worshipper  of  physical  loveliness  as  he  is.  In 
Drummond's  voluptuous  and  gorgeous  verse  there  is  no 
trace  of  the  Elizabethan  naivete  or  dramatic  passion. 
It  is  the  deliberate  poetry  of  an  accomplished  scholar- 
artist. 

As  he  grew  older,  Drummond  became  pious,  but  without 
changing  his  style.  His  Flowers  of  Sion  of  1623  are 
gnomic  or  moral,  and  not  by  any  means  exclusively 
religious.  The  famous  sonnet  to  the  Nightingale  forms 
a  part  of  this  volume  : — 

Sweet  bird,  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hour:>, 
Of  winter's  past  or  coming  void  of  care, 
Well  pleased  with  delights  which  present  are, 

Fair  seasons,  budding  sprays,  sweet-smelling  flowers  ; 

To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy  bowers 
Thou  thy  Creator's  goodness  doth  declare, 
And  what  dear  gifts  on  thee  he  did  not  spare, 

A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  lowers. 

What  soul  can  be  so  sick  which  by  thy  songs, 
Attir'd  in  sweetness,  sweetly  is  not  driven 

Quite  to  forget  earth's  turmoils,  spites  and  wrongs. 
And  lift  a  reverend  eye  and  thought  to  heaven? 

Sweet  artless  songster,  thou  my  mind  dost  raise 

To  airs  of  spheres,  yes,  and  to  angels'  lays. 

What  are  most  remarkable,  from  tlie  point  of  view 
of  style,  among  these   divine  poems,  are  certain   can- 


Ch.  v.]  Dnimmond.  105 

zonets  in  which  there  is  found  such  a  sensuous  ardour 
and  fiery  perfume  as  were  not  to  be  met  with  again 
in  EngUsh  religious  verse  until  the  days  of  Crashaw. 
In  "  A  Hymn  to  the  Passion  "  we  have  one  of  the  earliest, 
if  not  the  very  earliest,  lengthy  exercise  in  terza  rinia  in 
our  language,  a  tour  de  foire  carried  out  with  surprising 
ease.  More  spirited  is  the  ode  on  the  "  Resurrection," 
and  it  might  be  difficult  to  overpraise,  in  its  own  elaborate 
and  glittering  manner,  the  ode  called  "  An  Hymn  of  the 
Ascension."     It  opens  thus — 

Bright  portals  of  the  sky, 

Emboss'd  with  sparkling  stars, 

Doors  of  eternity, 

With  diamantine  bars, 

Your  arras  rich  uphold. 

Loose  all  your  bolts  and  springs, 

Ope  wide  your  leaves  of  gold. 

That  in  your  roofs  may  come  the  King  of  kings  ! 

Scarf'd  in  a  rosy  cloud, 
lie  doth  ascend  the  air  ; 
Straight  doth  the  moon  him  shroud 
With  her  resplendent  hair  ; 
The  next  encrystall'd  light 
Submits  to  him  its  beams. 
And  he  doth  trace  the  height 
Of  that  fair  lamp  whence  flame  of  beaufy  streams. 

He  towers  those  golden  bounds 
He  did  to  sun  bequeath  ; 
The  higher  wandering  rounds 
Are  found  his  feet  beneath  ; 
The  Milky  Way  comes  near, 
Heaven's  axle  seems  to  bend 
■Above  each  turning  sphere 
That,  rob'd  in  glory,  heaven's  King  may  ascend. 


io6  The  Jacobean  Poets,  [Ch.  v. 

What  Drummond  says  is  never  so  important  as  the 
way  in  which  he  says  it,  and  it  would  be  as  absurd  to 
look  for  any  spiritual  fervour  or  record  of  deep  expe- 
rience in  these  Flowers  of  Sion  as  it  would  be  to  suppose 
them  in  any  way  disingenuous.  The  spangled  style  was 
the  cassock  which  best  suited  the  sincere  but  sensuous 
piety  of  this  poetical  preacher.  To  the  Flowers  of  Sioti 
was  appended  The  Cypress  Grove,  a  prose  treatise  to 
edification,  containing  some  few  sonnets,  not  the  author's 
best. 

In  1619  Ben  Jonson  came  up  to  Hawthornden,  and 
talked  about  his  contemporaries.  Of  these  conversations 
Drummond  has  preserved  an  invaluable  report,  bearing 
the  fullest  impress  of  veracity.  The  Scotch  poet  con- 
tinued to  write  after  the  death  of  James  L,  and  survived 
until  1649. 

Of  other  Northern  writers,  Sir  William  Alexander,  Earl 
of  StirHng,  will  be  treated  in  another  place.  Alexander 
Craig,  of  Rose-Craig  (1567  ?-i627),  was  a  sonneteer  who 
possessed  some  measure  of  pedantic  skill.  His  friend, 
Sir  Robert  Aytoun  (1570-1638),  was,  like  himself,  a 
student  of  St.  Leonard's  College  in  St.  Andrews.  Aytoun 
long  preserved  a  considerable  reputation  for  the  grace 
and  delicacy  of  his  verse ;  but,  unhappily,  a  doubt  hangs 
over  his  most  admired  compositions,  and  it  is  not  certain 
that  we  possess,  as  his,  the  verses  which  Dryden  pro- 
nounced "  some  of  the  best  of  that  age."  Robert  Ker, 
Earl  of  Ancrum  (1578-1654),  was  a  sonneteer;  and, 
finally,  the  Scotch  include  among  their  poets  Alexander 
Garden  (1587  ?- 1645),  who  wrote  A  Theatre  of  Scottish 
Worthies,  and  other  respectable  volumes. 


\ 


Cii.  v.]  Sir  JoJui  Beaumont .  107 

An  English  poet  to  whose  merit  justice  has  scarcely 
been  done  is  Sir  John  Beaumont,  the  brother  of  Francis, 
the  dramatist.  He  was  writing  verses  during  the  whole 
of  James  I.'s  reign,  but  he  did  not  publish  them,  and 
some  of  his  most  important  work  has  perished.  He  was 
born,  the  second  son  of  Sir  Thomas  Beaumont,  of  Grace- 
dieu^  in  1583,  and  was  educated  at  Oxford.  In  the  last 
year  of  Elizabeth  an  anonymous  poem  was  printed  in 
London,  entitled  The  Metamorphosis  of  Tobacco ;  this  is 
attributed  to  Sir  John,  and  bears  all  the  impress  of  his 
rather  peculiar  versification.  He  was  made  a  baronet 
in  1626,  and,  dying  in  April,  1627,  was  buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey.  His  son,  Sir  John,  a  noted  athlete, 
afterwards  killed  at  the  siege  of  Gloucester — himself  an 
accomplished  versifier — edited  his  father's  posthumous 
works  in  1629,  as  Bosworih  Field :  with  a  Taste  of  the 
Variety  of  other  Poems ;  but  Sir  John  Beaumont's  pre- 
sumed masterpiece,  his  long  religious  poem  of  The 
Croivn  of  Thorns^  has  disappeared,  and  may  be  regarded 
as  a  serious  loss,  for  it  was  much  admired  by  his  con- 
temporaries. 

The  versification  of  Beaumont  is  remarkably  polished. 
No  one,  indeed,  was  in  1602  writing  the  heroic  couplet 
so  ''correctly"  as  the  author  of  The  Meta7norphosis. 
This  mock-heroic  piece,  which  has  been  underestimated, 
is  full  of  most  charming  fancies,  and  promises  more  than 
Sir  John  Beaumont  ever  quite  carried  out.  Boszvorth 
Field  is  a  carefully,  and  again  a  very  smoothly,  written 
historical  poem,  but  a  little  arid  and  cold,  the  theme 
being  one  beyond  the  author's  powers,  which  tended  to 
lose  themselves  in  the  desultory  and  the  unessential. 


loS  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  v. 

This  is  a  pathetic  example  of  Bosworth  Field— 

If,  in  the  midst  of  such  a  bloody  fight, 

The  name  of  friendship  be  not  thought  too  liglit, 

Recount,  my  ^luse,  how  Byron's  faithful  love 

To  dying  Clifton  did  itself  approve  : 

For  Clifton,  fighting  bravely  in  the  troop, 

Receives  a  wound,  and  now  begins  to  droop  ; 

Which  Byron  seeing, — though  in  arms  his  foe. 

In  heart  his  friend,  and  hoping  that  the  blow 

Had  not  been  mortal — guards  him  with  his  shield 

From  second  hurts,  and  cries,  *'  Dear  Clifton,  yield  ! 

Thou  hither  cam'st,  led  by  sinister  fate. 

Against  my  first  advice,  yet  now,  though  late, 

Take  this  my  counsel  !  "     Clifton  thus  replied  : — 

*'  It  is  too  late,  for  I  must  now  provide 

To  seek  another  life  ;  live  thou,  sweet  friend  !  " 

Beaumont's  sacred  and  his  courtly  poems  are  lucid  and 
graceful,  without  much  force,  the  neatness  of  the  tripping 
couplets  being  more  remarkable  than  the  freshness  of  the 
imagery. 

The  death  of  his  son  Gervase  wrung  from  Sir  John 
Beaumont  this  touching  elegy — 

Can  I,  who  have  for  others  oft  compiled 
The  songs  of  death,  forget  my  sweetest  child. 
Which  like  a  flov/er  crushed,  with  a  blast  is  dead, 
And  ere  full  time  hangs  down  his  smiling  head, 
Expecting  with  dear  hope  to  live  anew, 
Among  the  angels,  fed  with  heavenly  dew? 
We  have  this  sign  of  joy,  that,  many  days, 
While  on  the  earth  his  struggling  spirit  stays. 
The  name  of  Jesus  in  his  mouth  contains 
His  only  food,  his  sleep,  his  ease  from  pains. 
O  may  that  sound  be  rooted  in  my  mind, 
Of  which  in  him  such  strong  effect  I  find. 
Dear  Lord,  receive  my  son,  whose  winning  love 
To  me  was  like  a  friendship,  far  above 


Ch.  v.]      Sir  John  Beaumont— Brathwait.  109 

The  course  of  nature,  or  his  tender  age, — 
Whose  looks  could  all  my  bitter  grief  assuage  ; 
Let  his  pure  soul  ordain'd  seven  years  to  be 
In  that  frail  body,  which  was  part  of  me. 
Remain  my  pledge  in  heaven,  as  sent  to  show 
How  to  this  port  at  every  step  I  go. 

So  far  as  we  can  judge,  he  was  curiously  devoid  of  the 
lyrical  tendency,  and  wrote  little  which  was  not  in  the 
couplet  which  he  manipulated  so  cleverly. 

Richard  Brathwait  was  born,  as  it  is  believed,  near 
Kendal,  in   1588.     He   died   at  Catterick   on   May  4, 
1673,  being  therefore  in  existence  from  the  prime  of 
Spenser's   life   until   after   the   birth   of  Addison.      He 
became  a  commoner  of  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  in  1604, 
and,  if  we  may  beUeve  his  own  words,  about  that  time 
began  the  work  that  he  was  all  his  life  polishing  up,  the 
Barnabae  Itinerarhim.     Removing  afterwards  to  Cam- 
bridge, he  became  a  pupil  of  Lancelot  Andrews,  but 
distinguished  himself  more  as  an  inveterate  lover  of  dis- 
solute company  than  as  a  student  or  a  thinker.     He 
married  in  161 7,  became  the  captain  of  a  foot-company 
of  trained-bands,    deputy-lieutenant   of    the   county   of 
Westmoreland,  and  a  justice  of  the  peace.     The  only 
other  noticeable  fact  of  his  life  was  that  he  became  the 
father  of  the  gallant  and  unfortunate  Sir  Strafford  Brath- 
wait, who  died  fighting  the  Algerines.     His  works  range 
from  The  Golden  i^/^^^^,  published  in  161 1,  to  a  sort  of 
commentary  on  Chaucer,  which  appeared  in  1665,  and 
thus  his  literary  life  embraced  more  than  half  a  century. 
His  serious  poems,  elegies,  odes,  madrigals,  and  the  like, 
are  unredeemed   dulness,   the  very  flattest  ditch-water 
imitations  of  such  rare  poets  as  Breton  and  Daniel ;  but 


no  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  V. 

he  had  a  genuhic  vein  of  boisterous  humour,  and  this 
gives  some  doubtful  value  to  a  few  vivacious  pieces. 

The  Barnahae  Itinerarium,  however,  is  worthy  of  rather 
more  definite  praise  than  this,  if  only  on  the  score  of 
its  novelty  and  oddity.  It  was  printed  in  Latin  and 
English,  in  a  six-line  rhymed  stanza,  the  Latin  on  one 
side,  the  English  on  the  other.  As  a  feat  of  versifica- 
tion, the  English  version  is  distinctly  remarkable,  being 
written  throughout  in  double  rhymes.  The  meaning  is 
usually  more  obvious  and  expressed  more  naturally  in 
the  Latin,  and  one  may  therefore  surmise  that  this  is 
the  original  text.  The  poem  is  divided  into  four  books, 
each  describing  a  distinct  journey,  and  each  probably 
composed  at  a  different  part  of  the  author's  life.  All  are 
ribald,  but  the  first  and  most  juvenile  is  peculiarly  profli- 
gate and  reckless.  Inasmuch  as  we  may  take  the  recital 
as  being  autobiographical,  it  gives  us  the  undisguised 
portrait  of  the  poet  as  a  drunken  young  ruflfian.  Praise 
of  liquor  is  the  great  inspiring  theme,  and  he  worships 
Bacchus  with  the  fervour  of  a  devotee.  "  Jam.ais  homrne 
noble  ne  hayst  le  bon  vin :  c'est  ung  apophthegme 
monachal,"  says  somebody  in  GargaiiUia^  and  Brathwait 
might  have  taken  this  axiom  as  his  text. 

This  way,  that  way,  each  way  shrunk  I, 
Little  eat  I,  deeply  drunk  I, 

he  says,  and  his  Itinerary  is  distinctly  unedifying.  Un- 
amusing  it  is  not.  On  the  threshold  we  meet  with  a 
fomous  morsel  of  burlesque — 

In  my  progress  travelling  northward, 
Taking  my  farewell  o'  the  southward, 


Cii.  v.]  BratJnvait.  1 1 1 

To  Banbury  came  I,  O  profane  one, 
Where  I  saw  a  Puritane  one 
Hanging  of  his  cat  on  Monday, 
For  killing  of  a  mouse  on  Sunday. 

At   Nottingham  he  finds  highway  riders   still  imitating 

the  great  deeds  of  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John;   at 

Wakefield   he   is   disappointed   not   to   meet   \Yith   the 

veritable  Pinner,  George-a-Green — 

Veni  Wakefeeld  peramoenum, 

Ubi  quaerens  Georgium  Grenum, 

Non  inveni. 

At  Ingleton,  some  women  threw  half  a  brick  at  him,  in 
quite  the  modern  manner.  At  Hodsdon  he  is  prevailed 
on  to  play  cards  with  some  coney-catchers,  who  fleece 
him  of  everything ;  he  has  them  up  before  a  justice,  but 
he  is  only  jeered  at  for  his  pains.  At  Wansforth  Briggs 
he  has  an  odd  adventure,  which  he  thus  recounts  in 
his  terse  fashion — 

On  a  haycock  sleeping  soundly, 

Th'  river  rose  and  took  me  roundly 

Down  the  current ;  people  cried  ; 

Sleeping,  down  the  stream  I  hied  ; 

*'  Where  away,"  quoth  they,  "  from  Greenland  ?  " 

**  No  !  from  Wansforth  Briggs  in  England  !  " 

His  constant  complaints  of  the  accommodation  he  meets 

with  are  pathetic — 

Inns  are  nasty,  dusty,  fusty, 

Both  with  smoke  and  rubbish  musty. 

These  quotations  do  not  give  an  unfair  idea  of  the  best 
humour  of  a  poem  that  never  drags  or  becomes  dull, 
but  which  is  generally  indecorous  and  always  doggerel. 
It  scarcely  belongs  to  literature  at  all,  but  it  deserves 


112  The  Jacobeau  Poets.  [Ch.  V. 

a  place  in  every  library  that  admits  what  is  dedicated  to 
whimsical  humours. 

Scarcely  more  poetical  and  not  so  amusing  were  the 
voluminous  tractates  of  John  Davies  (1565 — 1618?), 
the  writing-master  of  Hereford.  Mr.  Saintsbury  has 
generously  discovered  in  him  "a  certain  salt  of  wit  which 
puts  him  above  the  mere  pamphleteers."  But  it  requires 
a  very  strenuous  effort  to  find  savour  in  Davies,  who  is 
not  to  be  confounded  with  the  admirable  Elizabethan 
poet  of  the  Nosce  Teipsiim.  He  began  with  a  philo- 
sophical Minim  in  Modum  in  1602,  and  closed  his  series 
of  fifteen  or  sixteen  publications  with  a  Wifs  Bedlam  in 
1 617.  Davies  of  Hereford  deserves  recognition  of  the 
same  sort  as  may  be  awarded  to  Samuel  Rowlands,  whom 
in  some  respects  he  followed,  if  he  did  not  imitate.  His 
works  are  mines  for  the  literary  antiquarian,  but  defy  the 
mere  poetical  reader. 

The  early  metrical  romances  of  Shakespeare  found 
a  not  unskilful  imitator  in  the  actor  William  Barkstead, 
who  published  a  Mirrha  in  1607  and  a  Hiren  in  161 1. 
An  anonymous  writer  selected  the  first  of  these  themes 
for  a  poem  called  The  Scourge  of  Venus,  1613,  so  closely 
similar  in  style  to  Barkstead's  acknowledged  work  that 
it  is  a  temptation,  in  spite  of  the  repetition  of  subject, 
to  suppose  the  writers  identical.  Barkstead's  tribute  to 
his  great  predecessor  may  be  given  as  an  example  of  his 
manner ;  Mirrha  closes  thus — 

But  stay,  my  Muse,  in  thine  own  confines  keep. 
And  make  not  war  with  so  dear-loved  a  neighbour  ; 

But,  having  sung  thy  day-song,  rest  and  sleep, 
Preserve  thy  small  fame  and  his  greater  favour  ; 


Ch.  v.]  Barkstead,  113 

His  song  was  worthy  merit ;  Shakespeare,  he 


Sung  the  fair  blossom,  thou  the  withered  tree  ;       -A 
Laurel  is  due  to  him,  his  art  and  wit  '-■ 


Hath  purchased  it ;  cypress  thy  brow  will  fit. 


%:: 


Barkstead,  whose  name  is  traditionally  connected  with 
those  of  Peele  and  Marston,  may  have  helped  those 
playwrights  in  their  dramatic  work.  He  was  not  without 
a  reflection  of  the  EUzabethan  glow  and  voluptuousness 
of  style. 

Certain  still  lesser  figures  may  be  rapidly  marshalled 
at  the  close  of  this  chapter.  The  actor  and  pamphleteer, 
Robert  Arnim,  published  in[i6o9  a  lively  doggerel  poem, 
called  The  Italian  Tailor  and  his  Boy.  Peter  Wood- 
house,  of  whom  nothing  is  recorded,  produced  a  strange 
moral  fable,  cr  disguised  satire.  The  Elephant  and  the 
Flea  J  1605.  Richard  Niccols,  born  in  1584,  was  known 
not  merely  as  the  final  editor  of  The  Mirror  for  Magis- 
trates in  1610,  to  which  edition  he  contributed  *'The 
Fall  of  Princes,"  and  ''  A  Winter  Night's  Vision"— but 
as  the  author  of  eight  or  nine  independent  volumes  of 
smooth  and  fluent  verse,  always  readable  enough,  though 
tame  and  uninspired.  Niccols'  best  work  is  his  journal- 
istic poem,  called  Sir  Thomas  Overburfs  Vision,  16 16, 
a  sort  of  rhymed  "special  edition"  to  be  distributed 
under  the  scaffold  of  the  murderers.  Richard  Middleton, 
of  York,  published  Epigrams  in  1608,  and  Henry  Parrot 
several  volumes  of  short  satirical  pieces,  from  llie 
Mouse-Trap  of  1606  to  VIII.  Cures  for  the  Itch  in 
1626.  Thomas  Freeman,  an  Oxford  graduate,  came  to 
London,  as  AVood  says,  "to  set  up  for  a  poet,"  and 
published  in  16 14  Rtth  and  a  Great  Cast,  a  volume  of 

I 


114  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  V. 

epigrams,  among  which  are  some  on  Shakespeare  and 
other  leading  poets  of  the  age.  Sir  William  Leighton, 
an  unlucky  knight  who  died  in  want,  and  perhaps  in 
prison,  about  1614,  was  both  a  versifier  and  a  musician. 
So  was  John  Daniel,  the  brother  of  the  poet-laureate, 
who  published  Soigs  for  the  Liite^  Viol,  and  Voice, 
in  1606. 

This  is  one  of  Daniel's  madrigals — 

Thou  pretty  bird,  how  do  I  see 

Thy  silly  state  and  mine  agree  ! 

For  thou  a  prisoner  art ; 

So  is  my  heart. 

Thou  sing'st  to  her,  and  so  do  I  address 

My  music  to  her  ear  that's  merciless  ; 

But  herein  doth  the  difference  lie, — 

That  thou  art  grac'd,  so  am  not  I ; 

Thou  singing  liv'st,  and  I  must  singing  die. 

If  it  could  be  proved  that  Robert  Jones  was  himself  the 
author  of  the  exquisite  madrigals  and  seed-pearl  of  song 
which  are  found  scattered  through  his  numerous  publica- 
tions for  the  lute  and  the  bass-viol,  he  would  claim  a  place 
among  the  lyrical  poets  of  the  age  only  just  below  that 
assigned  to  Campion. 

This  is  from  Jones'  The  Muses'  Garden  of  Delights, 
i6ro — 

The  sea  hath  many  thousand  sands, 

The  sun  hath  motes  as  many  ; 
The  sky  is  full  of  stars,  and  love 

As  full  of  woes  as  any  ; 
Believe  me,  that  do  know  the  elf, 
And  make  no  trial  by  thyself. 


Ch.  v.]  Over  bury.  115 

It  is  in  truth  a  pretty  toy 

For  babes  to  play  withal ; 
But  O  the  honies  of  our  youth 

Are  oft  our  age's  gall ! 
Self-proof  in  time  will  make  thee  know 
lie  was  a  prophet  told  thee  so. 

A  prophet  that,  Cassandra-like, 

Tells  truth  without  belief; 
For  headstrong  Youth  will  run  his  race, 

Although  his  goal  be  brief; 
Love's  martyr,  when  his  heart  is  fast. 
Proves  Care's  confessor  at  the  last. 

The  social  prominence  and  mysterious  murder  of  Sir 
Thomas  Overbury  gave  an  exaggerated  interest  to  his 
brief  posthumous  exercise  in  verse,  A  IVi/e,  16 14,  and 
to  his  version  of  Ovid's  Eemedy  of  Love,  1620.  Over- 
bury,  who  was  an  agreeable  prose  essayist,  was  born  at 
Compton  Scorfen  in  158  r,  and  was  poisoned  with  blue 
vitriol  at  the  instance  of  the  infamous  Countess  of 
Somerset  in  September,  16 13.  His  poem,  with  the  essays 
attached  to  it,  went  through  some  twenty  editions.  One 
stanza  may  be  quoted  here,  as  an  example  of  its 
manner — 

Books  are  a  part  of  man's  prerogative, 

In  formal  ink  they  thoughts  and  voices  hold. 

That  we  to  them  our  solitude  may  give, 
And  make  time-present  travel  that  of  old  ; 

Our  life  Fame  pierceth  longer  at  the  end. 

And  books  it  further  backward  do  extend. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

HEYWOOD — MIDDLETON — ROWLEY. 

There  is  no  greater  inconvenience  for  a  writer  of  second- 
rate  talent  than  to  come  before  the  public  in  the  midst 
of  a  short  and  brilliant  epoch,  and  to  wear  out  the 
evening  of  his  days  when  all  his  greatest  contemporaries 
are  gone.  His  colleagues  surpass  him  when  he  is  young, 
his  juniors  easily  outstrip  the  labours  of  his  middle-age, 
and  he  finds  himself  at  last  stranded  on  an  unfriendly 
generation  that  has  forgotten  his  first  works  and  despises 
his  last  as  eff^e.  Something  of  this  sad  fatality  seems 
to  have  attended  the  life  of  Heywood  ;  he  was  elbowed 
by  Shakespeare  and  Jonson  at  the  outset  of  his  career,  and 
without  having  succeeded  in  fully  arresting  the  attention 
of  any  one  of  the  swifdy  passing  generations  that  he  found 
place  in,  he  died  when  ]\lilton  and  Marvell  were  intro- 
ducing a  system  of  poetry  in  which  he,  and  such  as  he, 
found  no  place  whatever.  He  passed  away  unnoticed ; 
no  contemporary  devoted  a  printed  line  to  the  death  of 
a  dramatist  who  remained  completely  unknown  till 
Charles  Lamb  breathed  fresh  life  into  the  Elizabethan 
valley  of  dry  bones. 


Cn.  VI.]  Heyzvood.  117 

Since  his  resuscitation  he  has  suffered  from  a  fresh 
injustice,  the  cause  of  which  it  is  not  easy  to  discover. 
Tliose  who  have  complained  of  his  flatness,  rudeness, 
want  of  poetic  art,  have  themselves  increased  these 
qualities  in  tacitly  considering  him  as  one  of  the 
latest  of  the  great  dramatic  group.  He  is  usually 
placed  in  chronological  arrangement  after  Massinger, 
after  Ford,  with  only  Shirley  and  Jasper  Mayne  behind 
him.  It  is  true  that  he  lived  till  all  but  these  were 
gone,  but  not  on  that  account  ought  he  to  be  con- 
sidered as  one  of  the  latest  of  the  group.  The  proper 
position  of  Heywood  is  in  the  centre,  at  the  climax 
of  the  drama.  That  miraculous  decade  (15 90-1 600) 
in  which  the  green  undergrowth  of  English  literature, 
as  if  in  a  single  tropical  night,  burst  into  wave  after 
wave  of  sudden  blossom,  produced  so  much  and 
developed  so  rapidly  that  the  closest  study  is  needed  to 
detect  the  stages  of  poetic  progress. 

Heywood  began  to  write  for  the  stage  about  1594, 
and  took  his  place  at  once  in  distinct  defiance  to  the 
school  of  Marlowe,  seeing  sooner  than  Shakespeare 
did,  because  dowered  with  an  imagination  infinitely  less 
fervid,  the  dangers  of  that  melodramatic  style  that 
fascinated  to  the  last  the  more  poetic  members  of  the 
cycle.  To  the  romanticism  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
men  of  a  slightly  later  date  than  his,  he  did  not  become 
attracted  until  long  afterwards,  and  with  the  tragic  poets 
he  never  held  any  communion  whatever.  He  remained 
to  the  last  simple,  old-fashioned  and  unsophisticated,  and 
tried  to  palm  off  dramas  full  of  the  pre-Shakespearian 
7idivete  and  directness  upon  audiences  accustomed  to  the 


iiS  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  VI. 

morbid  subtleties  of  Ford.  At  last,  one  knows  not  when, 
but  probably  not  before  1650,  this  brave  and  contented 
spirit  passed  silently  away. 

Thomas  Heywood,  gentleman,  was  born  in  all  pro- 
bability about  1570,  in  Lincolnshire.  He  went  to  Cam- 
bridge and  became  fellow  of  Peterhouse ;  while  at  the 
University  he  saw  "  tragedies,  comedies,  histories, 
pastorals,  and  shows  publicly  acted."  About  the  year 
1594  he  was  an  actor  in  the  Lord  Admiral's  Company; 
and  his  connection  with  the  stage  lasted  until  about 
1635.  According  to  his  own  famous  phrase,  so  often 
reprinted  from  The  English  Traveller,  in  1633  the  plays 
were  in  number  "two  hundred  and  twenty,  in  which  I 
have  had  either  an  entire  hand,  or  at  least  a  main  finger." 
It  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  know  in  what  "a  main 
finger"  consists.  If  it  rr.erely  means  that  Heywood  was 
in  the  habit  of  putting  gag  into  all  the  plays  in  which  he 
acted,  the  explanation  is  easy,  but  this  is  hardly  possible. 
There  still  exist  about  forty  dramatic  pieces  with  which 
Heywood  is  identified.  Some  of  his  earliest  works  seem 
to  have  been  dramas  of  considerable  size  dealing  with 
the  myths  of  classical  antiquity,  and  these  are  so  totally 
unlike  Heywood's  subsequent  plays  that  it  is  difficult  to 
realize  their  identity  of  authorship.  Their  value,  how- 
ever, as  works  of  poetic  art,  is  about  the  same.  They  are 
somewhat  tamely  and  evenly  unimaginative,  reaching  their 
highest  elevation  in  crises  of  a  certain  picturesqUeness. 
>  These,  however,  and  the  miscellaneous  and  doubtful  plays 
•    which  follow  them,  belong  to  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 

Under  James  I.,  Heywood  produced,  about  1603,  his 
famous  domestic  tragedy,  A  Wcvnaii  Killed  tvith  Kindness, 


Ch.  VI.]  Heyivood.  119 

Probably  to  the  same  period  may  be  assigned  The 
Rape  of  Lucrece.  The  tragi-comedy  of  Fortune  by 
Land  and  Sea,  in  which  Rowley  had  a  hand,  although 
not  published  until  1655,  belongs  to  this  earlier  period. 
It  is  supposed  that  Heywood  wrote  about  six  plays 
a  year,  and  it  is  exceedingly  hazardous  even  to  con- 
jecture the  succession  of  those  which  have  survived. 
The  Fair  Maid  of  the  West,  The  E?iglish  Travelle?', 
and  Love's  Mistress  are  probably  among  the  very  latest. 
When  we  have  mentioned  The  Royal  King  and  the 
Loyal  Subject,  The  La?icashire  Witches,  and  A  Challenge 
for  Beauty,  we  have  named  all  the  important  plays  of 
Heywood  which  can  possibly  be  considered  Jacobean. 

The  remarks  of  Charles  Lamb  on  Heywood  are  well 
known.  "  Heywood,"  says  Elia,  "  is  a  sort  of  prose 
Shakespeare.  His  scenes  are  to  the  full  as  natural  and 
affecting.  But  we  miss  the  Poet,  that  which  in  Shake- 
speare always  appears  out  and  above  the  surface  of  the 
naturel'  Given  thus  in  its  amplification,  the  criticism, 
if  still  a  little  too  enthusiastic,  is  sound  and  intelligible. 
But  to  speak  casually  of  Heywood  as  a  "  prose  Shake- 
speare" is  to  offer  a  stumbling-block  to  the  feet  of 
inexperienced  readers.  It  needs  the  imagination  of  a 
Lamb  to  divine  the  one  aspect  in  which  it  is  possible 
to  read  Shakespeare  into  Heywood.  He  is  curiously 
lacking  in  that  distinction  of  temper  which  was  so 
frequent  in  his  age.  In  studying  most  of  the  great  men 
of  that  time,  we  are  forced  in  some  measure  to  lift 
ourselves  into  their  altitudes  in  order  to  enjoy  their 
qualities.  The  humours  of  Ben  Jonson,  the  funereal 
silences   of  Webster,   the    frenzies    of   Middleton,    the 


120  The  Jacobea7i  Poets.  [Ch.  VI. 

romantic  intoxication  of  Fletcher — these  are  conditions 
of  the  imagination  with  which  our  modern  life  is  little  in 
sympathy,  and  to  throw  ourselves  cordially  into  them  we 
must  resolutely  forget  the  habits  of  thought  which  chequer 
our  modern  daily  life.  It  is  not  so  with  what  is  most 
characteristic  in  Heywood.  No  effort  is  needed  to 
make  the  spirit  in  s}*mpathy  with  him.  This  mild  and 
genial  nature  knew  nothing  of  the  subtle  mysteries  of 
human  experience,  and  satisfied  himself  with  presenting 
before  us  such  simple  and  realistic  pictures  as  shall  move 
us  to  quiet  laughter  and  passing  tears.  As  a  history  of 
domestic  sorrow,  nobly  borne  by  the  wronged,  and 
bitterly  atoned  by  the  wrong-doer,  without  heroic  circum- 
stances and  without  high-fiowTi  phrases,  A  Woman 
Killed  with  Ki)idness  remains  unexcelled,  perhaps  un- 
equalled, in  our  poetical  literature.  It  is  the  most  highly 
finished  of  the  dramas  of  Heywood,  and  the  only  one 
which  has  been  put  on  the  stage  within  recent  times.  It 
was  first  published  in  1607. 

When  He}*wood  came  to  write  The  English  Traveller 
he  was  more  under  the  influence  of  Ben  Jonson  than  of 
Shakespeare.  His  language  has  here  lost  its  simple  and 
straightforward  character ;  it  is  full  of  quips  and  catches, 
and  the  dialogue  is  studded  with  conceited  oaths.  The 
plot  of  this  play  is  founded  on  that  of  the  JMosteliaria  of 
Plautus,  and  the  really  affecting  scenes  of  it  deal  with  the 
unselfish  love  of  an  old  gentleman,  recently  wedded  to 
a  young  wife,  for  one  of  the  fine  young  men  that  become 
so  familiar  to  readers  of  Heywood.  He  trusts  the  youth 
with  his  house,  wealth,  and  wife,  secure  in  his  known 
honour;  but  sorrow  is  brought  on  all  the  characters  by 


Ch.  VI.]  Heyivood.  121 

the  heartless  intrigues  of  a  friend  whom  the  young  man 
introduces  into  his  old  host's  house.  This  play  is  fall  of 
clever  and  picturesque  passages,  and  there  is  in  particular 
one  describing  a  riotous  party  of  drinking  men,  which  is 
perhaps  the  most  spirited  page  of  Hey  wood's  writing.  The 
Shakespearian  qualities  of  sweetness  and  gentleness  which 
Charles  Lamb  has  claimed  for  this  author  are  pleasantly 
exemplified  in  The  Challenge  for  Beauty^  a  Spanish  story 
of  the  love  of  Petrocella  for  a  noble  English  captive, 
Montferrers,  and  in  the  romantic  tragedy  of  Forlune  by 
Land  and  Sea. 

Heywood  was  also  a  fertile  producer  of  non-dramatic 
works.  His  poems  include  Iroia  Bi'ila?inica,  1609,  an 
epic  in  nineteen  cantos  ;  The  Life  and  Death  of  Hector^ 
1 6 14;  various  elegies  and  epithalamia;  and  The  Hier- 
archy of  Angels^  not  printed  until  1635,  in  a  handsome 
folio  with  engraved  plates.  None  of  these  have  taken 
any  place  in  literature,  but  Heywood  occasionally  wrote 
lyrics  of  great  charm. 

This  is  from  the  "  true  Roman  tragedy  "  of  TJie  Rape 
of  Liicrece^  published  in  1609 — 

Now,  what  is  love  I  will  thee  tell, 
It  is  the  fountain  and  the  well 
Where  pleasure  and  repentance  dwell, 
It  is,  perhaps,  the  sancing  bell 
That  rings  all  in  to  heaven  or  hell ; 
And  this  is  love,  and  this  is  love,  as  I  hear  tell. 

Now  what  is  love  I  will  you  show, — 
A  thing  that  creeps  and  cannot  go ; 
A  prize  that  passeth  to  and  fro  ; 
A  thing  for  me,  a  thing  for  moc  ; 
And  he  that  proves  shall  find  it  so, 
And  this  is  love,  and  this  is  love,  sweet  friend,  I  trow. 


122  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  VI. 

Heywood  was  not  one  of  those  poets  on  whom  the 
gaze  of  all  critics  turns,  as  to  a  star  whose  beams  lend 
themselves  to  infinite  analysis ;  it  is  easy  enough  to 
divide  the  clear  rays  in  his  one  pencil  of  light.  He  is  a 
poet  who  will  never,  in  future,  want  his  friends,  but  who 
will  scarcely  claim  one  lover.  It  is  not  possible  to  be 
enthusiastic  over  the  memory  of  a  gossip  so  cheerful, 
garrulous,  and  superficial  as  this  haunter  of  the  Strand 
and  the  Exchange.  He  has  a  thousand  entertaining 
things  to  tell  us  about  the  shops  and  the  shop-girls; 
about  the  handsome  young  gallants,  and  the  shocking 
way  in  which  they  waste  their  money ;  about  the  affecta- 
tions of  citizen  fathers,  and  the  tempers  of  citizen  mothers. 
He  is  the  most  confirmed  button-holer  of  our  poetical 
acquaintance;  and  if  he  were  only  a  Httle  more 
monotonous,  he  would  be  universally  voted  a  bore. 
Somehow  or  other,  he  has  a  little  group  of  listeners 
always  round  him ;  it  is  not  easy  to  drag  one's  self  away 
till  his  stories  are  finished.  His  voice  trembles  as  he 
tells  us  the  strangest,  saddest  tale  of  how  this  or  that 
poor  girl  came  to  shame  and  sorrow— of  how  such  a 
noble  gentleman,  whom  we  must  have  often  seen  in 
the  streets,  lost  all  his  estate,  and  died  in  want;  and 
though  there  is  nothing  new  in  what  he  tells  us,  and 
though  he  hurries  with  characteristic  timidity  over 
every  embarrassing  or  painful  detail,  we  cannot  help 
paying  his  loquacity  the  tribute  of  our  laughter  and  our 
tears. 

As  an  example  of  the  blank  verse  of  Heywood,  a 
speech  of  Young  Lionel  in  The  English  Traveller  may 
be  quoted — • 


Cm.  VI.]  Heywood—Middleton.  1 23 

To  what  may  young  men  best  compare  themselves  ? 

Better  to  what,  than  to  a  house  new-built  ? 

The  fabric  strong,  the  chambers  well  contriv'd, 

Polish'd  within,  without  well  beautified  ; 

When  all  that  gaze  upon  the  edifice 

Do  not  alone  commend  the  workman's  craft, 

But  either  make  it  their  fair  precedent 

By  which  to  build  another,  or,  at  least, 

Wish  there  to  inhabit.     Being  set  to  sale, 

In  comes  a  slothful  tenant,  with  a  family 

As  lazy  and  debauch'd  ;  rough  tempests  rise, 

Until  the  roof,  which,  by  their  idleness 

Left  unrepaired,  the  stormy  showers  beat  in, 

Rot  the  main  posts  and  rafters,  spoil  the  rooms. 

Deface  the  ceilings,  and  in  little  space 

Bring  it  to  utter  ruin,  yet  the  fault 

Not  in  the  architector  that  first  reared  it. 

But  him  that  should  repair  it.     So  it  fares 

With  us  young  men.     We  are  those  houses  made, 

Our  parents  raise  these  structures,  the  foundation 

Laid  in  our  infancy. 

One  of  the  latest  to  attract  attention  of  all  the  Jacobean 
dramatists  was  Thomas  Middleton,  to  whom,  however, 
recent  criticism  assigns  an  ever-increasing  prominence. 
Neither  Hazlitt  nor  Charles  Lamb,  although  the  latter 
did  Middleton  the  signal  service  of  copious  quotations, 
was  nearly  so  much  struck  by  his  powers  as  our  latest 
critics  have  been.  The  reason,  probably,  was  to  be 
found  in  Middleton's  extreme  inequahty,  or  rather,  per- 
haps, in  the  persistence  with  which  he  combined  with 
men  of  talent  far  inferior  to  his  own.  He  seems  to  have 
had  no  ambition,  and  his  best  plays  were  all  posthumously 
published.  He  attracted  very  little  notice  in  his  own 
lifetime ;  to  Ben  Jonson  he  was  nothing  but  "  a  base 
fellow."    His  style  was  irregular  and  careless ;  but  no  one 


124  ^^^<?  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  VI. 

even  in  that  age  had  a  more  indubitable  gift  of  saying 
those  "  brave  sublunary  things  "  which  stir  the  pulse.  A 
very  odd  tradition  of  criticism  was,  that  Middleton's 
genius  was  essentially  unrom antic.  This  came  possibly 
from  the  exclusive  study  of  his  somewhat  boisterous 
comedies,  but  more  probably  arose  from  his  direct  and 
penetrating  diction,  which  was  singularly  remote  from 
the  pompous  and  bombastic  tradition  of  Elizabethan 
tragedy. 

Thomas  Middleton  was  born  in  London  about  1570. 
It  is  not  probable  that  he  began  to  write  before  1600,  for 
there  is  little  doubt  that  the  volume  entitled  Microcynicon^ 
Six  Snarling  Satyrs,  which  has  generally  been  attributed 
to  him,  was  written  by  T.  Muffet.  In  Middleton's  very 
first  play,  we  find  him  collaborating  with  the  author  with 
Vv'hom  he  was  to  be  so  closely  associated  throughout  his 
career ;  but  as  not  Rowley  only,  but  Massinger  also,  was 
a  boy  in  1600,  the  original  texture  of  T/ie  Old  Law  was 
probably  entirely  Middleton's.  The  early  career  of  this 
dramatist  is  peculiarly  obscure.  It  is  probable  that  two, 
or  perhaps  three,  of  his  existing  plays  were  written  before 
the  accession  of  James  the  First.  The  two  comedies  of 
The  Flicsnix,  and  Michaelmas  Term,  were  probably  acted 
very  early  in  the  reign,  although  they  were  not  published 
until  1607.  In  the  following  year  were  printed  A  Trick 
to  Catch  the  Old  One,  and  The  Family  of  Love ;  the  pro- 
logue of  the  second  play  modestly  acknowledges  the 
obscurity  of  the  author,  and  the  small  favour  that  he 
has  yet  gained  with  the  public.  If  Mr.  Fleay  is  correct, 
all  Middleton's  plays  up  to  this  date  had  been  written 
only  for  companies  of  boys.     A  Match  at  Midnight,  and 


Ch.  VL]  Middleton,  125 

A  Mad  World^  my  Masters^  evidently  belong  to  this 
early  period. 

As  early  as  1604,  Middleton  had  been  employed  to 
help  Dekker ;  but  in  161 3  we  find  him  beginning  to  write 
these  compositions  on  his  own  account,  and  presenting 
such  figures  as  Envy  "  eating  of  a  human  heart,  mounted 
on  a  Rhinoceros,  attired  in  red  silk,  suitable  to  the 
bloodiness  of  her  manners."  Three  plays,  written  by 
Middleton  alone,  are  conjectured  to  belong  to  this 
period ;  they  are  A  Chaste  Maid  in  Cheapside,  No  Wit 
Like  a  Woman's^  and  the  tragedy  in  which  he  first 
showed  the  full  force  of  his  genius,  Women  beivare 
Women,  About  16 16  the  regular  partnership  of  Mid_ 
dleton  and  Rowley  seems  to  have  commenced,  and  the 
first  product  of  it  was  the  spirited  and  original  play, 
called  A  Fair  Quarrel.  At  this  point  it  becomes  ex- 
ceedingly difficult  to  form  any  plausible  conjecture  as  to 
the  relative  dates  of  Middleton's  and  Rowley's  plays,  or 
to  assign  to  either  his  proper  share  in  their  composition. 

In  1620  Middleton  was  admitted  to  the  office  of  City 
Chronologer,  a  post  which  he  held  until  his  death.  It 
was  apparently  his  duty  to  produce  a  sort  of  newspaper, 
which,  however,  was  not  to  be  printed.  The  manuscript 
of  this  chronicle  was  still  in  existence  in  the  middle  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  but  has  since  disappeared.  The 
dramatic  genius  of  Middleton  had  by  this  time  advanced 
to  its  highest  perfection,  and  we  proceed  to  the  enumera- 
tion of  some  very  admirable  works.  In  the  group  of 
romantic  tragedies  and  tragi-comedies  which  he  nov/ 
began  to  produce,  it  is  probable  that  The  Witch,  a  tragedy 
not  published  until  1770,  was  the  earliest  in  point  of  time, 


126  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  vi. 

though  certainly  not  the  first  in  order  of  merit.  The 
interesting  relation  of  this  drama  to  Macbeth  has  given  a 
peculiar  interest  to  The  Witch ;  it  is  hardly  necessary  to 
say  that  Middleton's  weird  sisters  are  much  later,  not 
only  than  Shakespeare's,  but  than  Ben  Jonson's.  There 
is,  however,  a  curious  doubt  whether  some  of  the  songs 
now  printed  in  Afacbeth  may  not  have  been  the  com- 
position of  Middleton.  Far  superior  in  merit  to  The 
Witch  are  the  magnificent  plays  of  The  Changeling  and 
The  Spanish  Gipsy,  the  underplot  of  each  of  which  may 
be  attributed  to  Rowley. 

In  1623  Middleton  returned  to  his  comedies,  with 
More  Dissembler's  besides  Women  and  A  Game  at  Chess. 
When  the  latter  play  was  acted  in  August,  1624,  Gonde- 
mar,  the  Spanish  ambassador,  who  had  been  satirized  in 
it  as  the  Black  Knight,  made  a  formal  protest;  the 
comedy  was  suppressed,  and  Middleton  was  thrown  into 
prison.  The  list  of  Middleton's  plays  closes  with  the 
two  comedies  of  The  Widow  and  Anything  for  a  Quiet 
Life,  the  dates  of  which,  however,  are  quite  uncertain. 
Middleton  died  in  1627,  being  buried  on  the  4th  of  July 
in  the  parish  churchyard  of  Newington  Butts. 

The  strength  of  Middleton  lies,  not  in  his  rather  gross 
and  careless  comedies,  but  in  his  romantic  dramas,  his 
singularly  imaginative  tragedies  and  tragi-comedies. 
Lamb,  although  he  seems  scarcely  to  have  appreciated 
Middleton,  speaks  with  extreme  felicity  of  his  "  exquisite- 
ness  of  moral  sensibility,  making  one  to  gush  out  tears  of 
delight."  There  is,  unfortunately,  too  much  of  Middleton 
in  existence ;  a  single  volume  might  be  selected  which 
would  give  readers  an  exceedingly  high  impression  of 


Ch.  VI.]  Middleton,  127 

his  genius.  He  had  no  lyrical  gift,  and  his  verse,  although 
it  is  enlivened  by  a  singularly  brilliant  and  unexpected 
diction,  is  not  in  itself  of  any  great  beauty.  There  is  no 
better  example  of  Middleton's  work,  to  which  a  student 
can  be  recommended,  than  the  serious  part  of  The 
Changeling.  Mr.  Bullen  has  spoken  of  the  great  scene 
between  De  Flores  and  Beatrice  as  "  unequalled  outside 
Shakespeare's  greatest  tragedies,"  and  the  praise  can 
hardly  be  held  excessive.  The  plot  of  The  Changeliiig, 
which  turns  on  the  stratagem  of  a  girl  who,  being  in  love 
with  one  man,  and  affianced  to  a  second,  turns  to  a  third 
to  extricate  her  from  her  difficulty,  is  in  the  highest 
degree  curious  and  novel.  But  when  De  Flores  has 
been  persuaded  to  murder  Alonzo,  Beatrice  is  no  nearer 
to  Alsemero  ;  for  De  Flores  and  his  insolent  conditions 
stand  in  her  way.  At  length  she  has  to  confess  Alonzo's 
murder  to  her  lover,  and  the  play  ends,  crudely,  in  a 
cluster  of  deaths.  But  nothing  in  Jacobean  drama  is 
finer  than  the  desperate  flutterings  of  Beatrice,  or  the 
monstrous  determination  of  De  Flores. 

Another  great  play  of  Middleton's  is  The  Spanish 
Gipy,  but  this  is  of  a  far  less  gloomy  type,  although  it 
opens  with  menacing  gravity.  The  air  lightens  as  the 
plot  develops,  and  we  assist  at  length  at  the  denoument 
of  a  graceful  and  peaceful  comedy,  drawn  on  the  com- 
bined lines  of  two  stories  from  Cervantes.  Some  writers 
have  considered  that  the  finest  of  Middleton's  plays  is  the 
tragedy  of  Women  beware  Women,  but  to  admit  this 
would  be  to  excuse  too  much  what  we  may  call  the 
ethical  tastelessness  of  the  age.  The  story  of  Women 
beware   Women  is  so  excessively  disagreeable,  and  the 


128  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  VI. 

play  closes  in  a  manner  so  odious,  that  the  reader's 
sympathy  is  hopelessly  alienated.  This  radical  fault  may 
perhaps  disturb,  but  can  scarcely  destroy  our  apprecia- 
tion of  the  beauty  and  invention  of  the  style.  The  scene 
between  Livia  and  the  widow  may  be  by  Middleton  or 
by  Rowley ;  the  polish  and  elasticity  of  the  verse  may 
probably  induce  us  to  conjecture  the  former.  We  have 
yet  to  mention,  in  analyzing  Middleton's  masterpieces, 
the  passages  v/hich  he  contributed  to  A  Fair  Quarrel. 
The  duel  scene  in  which  Captain  Agar  fights  with  his 
friend  the  colonel  to  avenge  his  mother's  honour  is  the 
best-known  existing  page  of  Middleton,  for  Charles 
Lamb  drew  especial  attention  to  it  in  his  Specimens. 
That  it  is  IMiddleton's  can  scarcely  be  questioned ;  all 
competent  critics  will  agree  with  Mr.  BuUen  when  he 
says,  "to  such  a  height  of  moral  dignity  and  artistic 
excellence  Rowley  never  attained." 

The  early  comedies  of  Middleton  are  curiously 
incoherent  in  form ;  scarcely  one  but  contains  passages 
of  high  romantic  beauty.  Later  on,  his  comic  talent 
became  more  assured  and  less  fitful,  but  the  plays  lose 
the  Elizabethan  flavour  of  romance ;  passages  of  pure 
poetry  become  rarer  and  rarer  in  them.  It  is  very 
difficult  to  obtain  any  satisfaction  out  of  such  incongruous 
\vork  as,  for  instance.  More  Dissemblers  besides  Women, 
On  the  other  hand,  A  Game  of  Chess,  which  gained  for 
INIiddleton  more  money  and  notoriety  than  all  of  his 
other  works  put  together,  is  a  patriotic  comedy  of  real 
delicacy  and  distinction,  and  of  all  Middleton's  non- 
<5>  tragic  plays  is  probably  the  one  which  may  be  studied 
with  most  satisfaction  by  the  modern  reader.     Popular 


Ch.  VI.]  Middleton—Rozvley.  129 

as  political  scandal  made  this  play,  it  is  yet  almost 
incredible  that  the  receipts  at  its  performance  amounted 
to  fifteen  hundred  pounds,  but  if  half  of  this  is  true,  it 
must  have  thrown  a  flush  of  real  success  over  the  close 
of  Middleton's  laborious  life. 

The  following  speech  of  Isabella,  in  the  tragedy 
Woman  beware  Women,  may  serve  as  an  example  of  the 
style  of  Middleton — 


Marry  a  fool  ! 
Can  there  be  greater  misery  to  a  woman 


"tr^^,, 


•:ss 


That  means  to  keep  her  days  true  to  her  husbafflj^-f^        X^--'*^: 

And  know  no  other  man?  so  virtue  wills  it.      Ir^'^     V^a  ^• 

Why,  how  can  I  obey  and  honour  him,  |l^^       ^^  " 

But  I  must  needs  commit  idolatry  ?  Vk^^        X>^ 

A  fool  is  but  the  image  of  a  man,  V  r^  ^A,  \ 

And  that  but  ill  made  neither.     O  the  heart-breakKige,.^* 

Of  miserable  maids  where  love's  enforc'd  !  's.'^!'  ^^_ 

The  lost  condition  is  but  bad  enough ;  ^C^^' "^ 

When  women  have  their  choices,  commonly 

They  do  but  buy  their  thraldoms,  bring  great  portions 

To  man  to  keep  'em  in  subjection  ; 

As  if  a  fearful  prisoner  should  bribe 

The  keeper  to  be  good  to  him,  yet  lies  in  still, 

And  glad  of  a  good  usage,  a  good  look  sometimes. 

By'r  lady,  no  misery  surmounts  a  woman's  ; 

Men  buy  their  slaves,  but  women  buy  their  masters  ; 

Yet  honesty  and  love  makes  all  this  happy, 

And  next  to  angels',  the  most  blest  estate. 

That  Providence,  that  has  made  every  poison 

Good  for  some  use,  and  sets  four  warring  elements 

At  peace  in  man,  can  make  a  harmony 

In  things  that  are  most  strange  to  human  reason. 

O  but  this  marriage  ! 

It  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  disengage  Middleton  from 
his  obscurer  coadjutor  William  Rowley,  who  was  probably 


130  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cir.  VI. 

about  fifteen  years  Middleton's  junior.  Rowley  was 
writing  for  the  stage  as  early  as  1607,  and  continued  to  do 
so  for  twenty  years.  In  1637  he  was  married,  in  London, 
and  we  know  absolutely  nothing  more  about  him.  It  is 
very  doubtful  at  what  moment  the  two  friends  began  to 
collaborate,  and  we  can  first  be  certain  of  identifying 
their  common  work,  when  they  join  to  produce  A  Fair 
Quarrel  in  16 17.  Rowley  had  a  small  part  in  a  great 
many  subsequent  dramas ;  but,  for  Middleton  only,  he 
seemed  to  have  worked  with  regularity.  In  The  Birth 
of  Merlin.,  we  have  an  unimportant  tragi-comedy  of 
Rowley's  with  which  the  name  of  Shakespeare  was  in 
some  indefinable  way  associated.  The  Avell-known 
comedy  of  The  Maid  of  the  Mill  wd.^  probably  written  by 
Rowley  and  Fletcher.  But  the  first  play,  which  we  are 
able  to  trace,  entirely  written  by  Rowley,  was  All's  lost  by 
Liist,  acted  about  1622,  and  A  New  Wonder.,  a  Woman 
fiever  vexed.,  was  also  attributed  to  him  alone.  Each  of 
Rowley's  principal  plays  attracted  the  attention  of 
Charles  Lamb,  who  quotes  largely  from  them.  It  is  by 
these  two  works  that  Rowley  must  be  judged,  and  in 
neither  is  his  style  seen  to  be  of  the  first  order.  His 
tragedy  is  rough  and  coarse,  founded  upon  the  imitation 
of  Middleton,  but  even  more  irregular  in  workmanship, 
and  less  brilliant  in  the  critical  passages.  Yet  I  know 
not  where  we  can  be  certain  of  observing  the  tragic  style 
of  Rowley,  except  in  the  crude  and  fierce  pages  of  All's 
lost  by  Lust, 

His  gift  in  comedy  can  be  more  easily  observed, 
and  in  particular  A  Neio  Wonder  is  a  typical  instance 
of  it.     Even  here,  however,  we  feel  that  to  be  dogmatic 


Cii.  VI.]  Willicvn  Roivley.  131 

would  be  to  be  rash,  and  that  Rowley  holds,  in  existing 
drama,  such  a  subaltern  position  that  it  is  very  difficult 
to  form  an  opinion  with  regard  to  his  talent.  He  is  a 
kitchen-maid  rather  than  a  cook,  and  it  is  impossible  to 
be  certain  what  share  he  has  had  in  the  preparation  of 
any  comic  feast  that  is  set  before  us.  So  far,  however, 
as  we  are  able  to  form  an  opinion,  we  are  apt  to  consider 
that  the  influence  of  Rowley  upon  Middleton  was  an  un- 
wholesome one.  Middleton  was  strangely  compacted 
of  gold  and  clay,  of  the  highest  gifts  and  of  the  lowest 
subterfuges  of  the  playwright.  In  Ro\Yley,  all  that  was 
not  clay  was  iron,  and  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  he 
sympathized  with  or  encouraged  his  friend's  ethereal 
eccentricities.  That  Rowley  had  a  hand  in  the  under- 
plot of  several  of  Middleton's  noblest  productions  does 
not  alter  our  conviction  that  his  own  sentiments  were 
rather  brutal  and  squalid,  and  that  he  cared  for  little  but 
to  pander  to  the  sensational  instincts  of  the  ground- 
lings. The  mutual  attitude  of  these  friends  has  been 
compared  to  that  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  but  it  is 
hard  to  think  of  Middleton  in  any  other  light  than  as 
a  poet  unequally  yoked  with  one  whose  temper  was 
essentially  prosaic. 

A  very  large  number  of  plays  were  issued  during  the 
first  ten  years  of  the  century  which  were  either  written 
by  men  who  achieved  no  wide  celebrity  as  dramatists, 
or  else  cannot  in  the  present  condition  of  knowledge  be 
identified  with  any  writer  whatever.  When  we  consider 
that  before  the  end  of  the  reign  of  James  I.,  something 
like  seven  hundred  plays  had  been  published  in  England, 
the  fecundity  of  our  early  drama  may  seem  positively 


132  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cn.  VI. 

astonishing.  It  would  be  going  too  far  to  pretend  that 
all  of  these  plays  displayed  meritorious  qualities  ;  but  it 
is  a  very  remarkable  fact  that  almost  every  play  of  the 
period  seems  to  possess  some  touch  of  vigorous  vitality. 
The  remainder  of  this  chapter  may  be  occupied  with  the 
enumeration  of  some  of  the  most  notable  single  plays  of 
the  early  part  of  the  reign.  A  very  popular  play  was 
Greene's  Tu  Qiioque^  written  by  a  man  who  lives  in 
literature  on  the  strength  of  a  beautiful  couplet  of  Mr. 
Swinburne's — 

Cooke,  whose  hght  boat  of  song  one  soft  breath  saves, 
Sighed  from  an  amorous  maiden's  mouth  of  verse. 

John  (not  Joseph)  Cooke  died  in  1612,  but  his  play 
was  first  printed  in  16 14. 

It  was  the  distinction  of  George  Wilkins  to  have  been 
associated  with  Shakespeare  in  the  composition  of 
Pericles,  but  Wilkins  was  also  the  author  of  an  exceed- 
ingly popular  drama,  The  Aliseries  of  E7if  arced  Marriage, 
first  printed  in  1607.  Lodowick  Barry  was  an  Irish 
gentleman  who  produced  in  161 1  a  boisterous  comedy 
called  Ram  Alky,  which  long  preserved  its  vogue. 
Edward  Sharpham  wrote  Tlie  Fl&art  and  Cupid's 
Whirligig,  each  in  1607.  Samuel  Rowley,  of  whom 
scarcely  anything  is  known,  may  or  may  not  have  been 
an  elder  brother  of  Middleton's  coadjutor.  He  seems 
to  have  been  an  actor  as  well  as  a  playwright,  and  to 
have  been  regularly  engaged  in  the  latter  capacity  from 
1599  until  the  end  of  James  I.'s  reign.  None  of  his 
existing  works  call  for  separate  mention.  Gervaise 
Markham  printed  in  1608  The  Dumb  K?iight,  a  romantic 
comedy  founded  upon  a  novel  of  Bandello.     Markham 


Cii.  VI.]  Anonymous  Plays.  133 

was  a  very  voluminous  author  of  prose  volumes.  During 
the  first  year  of  James  I.'s  reign,  it  is  supposed  that 
Anthony  Brewer  produced  his  comedy  of  The  Country 
Giriy  and  his  tragedy  of  The  Love-sick  King,  although 
these  were  not  printed  until  half  a  century  later.  John 
Mason  printed  in  16 10  a  spirited,  though  roughly  versified, 
tragedy  of  The  Turk.  Finally,  to  bring  this  tedious  list 
to  a  close,  two  Smiths,  Wentworth  and  William,  who 
have  been  confounded  with  one  another  and  with  Shake- 
speare, were  actively  engaged  in  writing  plays,  most  of 
which  have  disappeared.  Of  these  the  only  one  at  all 
accessible  is  The  Hector  of  Germany,  by  William  Smith. 

It  now  remains  to  describe  three  or  four  remarkable 
dramas  which  have  hitherto  eluded  every  species  of 
investigation,  and  remain  absolutely  anonymous.  In 
1606  was  printed  the  exceedingly  lively  and  interesting 
comedy  in  verse,  called  Nobody  and  Somebody,  to  which 
attention  was  first  directed  by  the  German  critic,  Tieck. 
It  presents  us  with  such  an  entertaining  picture  of  con- 
temporary manners,  that  it  is  unfortunate  that  we  cannot 
even  conjecture  by  what  apparently  practised  hand  it  was 
written ;  it  was  early  translated  into  German.  A  great 
deal  of  conjectural  criticism  has  been  expended  over  the 
very  fine  play  called  The  Second  Maideiis  Tragedy,  but 
without  resulting  in  any  absolute  certainty.  Mr.  Swin- 
burne has  strongly  argued  in  favour  of  the  claim  of 
Chapman,  and  Mr.  Fleay  no  less  vigorously  on  behalf 
of  Cyril  Tourneur.  The  play,  which  was  not  printed 
until  1824,  was  composed  in  161 1,  and  was  attributed  to 
the  actor  Robert  Gough,  who  is  not  known  to  have 
written  anything.     It  is  a  very  gloomy  and  violent  piece 


134  The  Jacobean  Poets,  [Ch.  VI. 

of  work,  executed,  however,  with  more  than  usual  care, 
and  very  finely  versified.  The  long-winded  prose  comedy 
of  Sb-  Giles  Goosecap^  which  was  printed  in  1606,  has 
had  its  admirers ;  but  a  much  more  interesting  dramatic 
work  is  Swetnam^  the  Woman-hater.  Ai^raigned  by  Wo/nen^ 
which  was  printed  in  1620,  and  probably  written  a  few 
years  earlier.  Joseph  Swetnam  was  the  author  of  a  very 
savage  prose  attack  on  women,  and  the  anonynious  play 
formed  an  incident  in  the  polemic  that  his  book  aroused. 
The  plot  was  taken  from  a  chivalrous  Spanish  iiovel  of 
the  time,  and  Sivetnani  the  Woman-hater  is  remarkable 
for  the  unusually  high  moral  tone  it  adopts  with  regard 
to  women. 

A  very  striking  anonymous  play  is  the  comedy  of 
The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Exchange^  published  in  1607.  It 
is  a  simple  and  straightforward  sketch  of  London  life 
at  the  opening  of  the  17th  century,  and  is  a  favour- 
able specimen  of  the  class  of  cleanly  comedy  that 
promised  to  produce  so  much  good  work,  and  which  was, 
unfortunately,  soon  spoiled  by  the  passion  for  licentious 
intrigue  to  which  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  pandered  so 
readily.  Nothing  can  be  brighter  tlian  the  mise  en  scene 
of  this  play ;  we  see  the  Royal  Exchange  (the  Burling- 
ton Arcade  of  that  day),  full  of  smart  shops,  gay  with 
passers  and  loungers,  a  little  sunny  centre  of  the  business 
life  of  the  City.  Here  the  Cripple  of  Fenchurch  Street 
has  his  stall,  a  tradesman,  but  wealthy,  and  heroic  in 
mind  and  body;  here  Miss  Phillis  Flower,  the  unconscious 
cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes,  lays  out  her  lawns  and 
satins  before  a  loitering  public  of  worshipping  young 
gallants  ;  here  the  fashionable  young  men  come  to  strut 


Cii.  VI.]     The  Fair  J\Iaid  of  the  ExcJiange,        135 

and  lounge,  and  take  liberties  with  the  tradespeople 
whose  wealth  they  envy  and  whose  purse-strings  they  are 
glad  to  pull.  The  opening  scene  of  the  play,  where 
Phillis  and  Ursula  are  attacked  at  night  by  two  ruffians 
at  Mile  End,  and  are  rescued  by  the  clutch  of  the  stout- 
hearted cripple,  and  where  the  dastardly  pair,  returning 
in  the  dark,  knock  the  Cripple  down,  who  in  turn  is 
rescued  by  Frank  Golding,  is  most  happily  devised,  and 
has  the  additional  merit  of  introducing  us  at  once  to  all 
the  principal  characters.  The  Cripple  is  a  delightful 
creation ;  but  our  interest  in  the  plot  falls  off  somewhat 
when  we  discover  that  he  refuses  or  dares  not  accept  the 
love  that  Phillis  proffers  him,  and  the  notion  of  making 
the  tall  and  handsome  Frank  personate  the  Cripple  so 
perfectly  as  to  deceive  the  girl  who  loves  the  latter,  and 
win  away  her  heart,  is  incredible  and  unnatural.  This 
play  is,  however,  noticeable  for  its  very  high  tone  of 
feeling  and  complete  originality  of  design. 

A  song  which  Frank  Golding  sings  in  The  Fair  Maid 
of  the  Exchange  may  close  the  present  chapter — 

Ye  little  birds  that  sit  and  sing 
Amidst  the  shady  valleys, 
And  see  how  Phillis  sweetly  walks 
Within  her  garden-alleys  ; 
Go,  pretty  birds,  about  her  bower  ! 
Sing,  pretty  birds,  she  may  not  lower  ! 
Ah  me,  methinks  I  see  her  frown  ! 
Ye  pretty  wantons  warble. 

Go  tell  her  through  your  chirping  bills, 
As  you  by  me  are  bidden, 
To  her  is  only  known  my  love, 
Which  from  the  world  is  hidden  ; 


136  The  Jacobean  Pods.  [Cii.  VI. 

Go,  pretty  birds,  and  tell  her  so  ; 
See  that  your  notes  strain  not  too  low. 
For  still  methinks  I  see  her  frown, — 
Ye  pretty  wantons  warble. 

Go  tune  your  voices'  harmony. 
And  sing  I  am  her  Lover ; 
Strain  loud  and  sweet,  that  every  note, 
With  sweet  content  may  move  her  ; 
And  she  that  hath  the  sweetest  voice, 
Tell  her  I  will  not  change  my  choice, 
Yet  still  methinks  I  see  her  frown,— 
Ye  pretty  wantons  warble. 

O  fly,  make  haste,  see,  see,  she  falls 
Into  a  pretty  slumber  ; 
Sing  round  about  her  rosy  bed 
That  waking  she  may  wonder  ; 
Say  to  her,  'tis  her  lover  true. 
That  sendeth  love  to  you,  to  you  ; 
And  when  you  hear  her  kind  reply,-  - 
Return  with  pleasant  warblings. 


CHAPTER   VIL 

GILES    AND    PHINEAS    FLETCHER — BROWNE. 

It  is  now  time  to  discuss  those  non-dramatic  writers 
who  remained  throughout  the  Jacobean  period  entirely 
devoted  to  the  Spenserian  tradition.  Among  these  Giles 
Fletcher  the  younger  was  the  most  original  and  brilliant. 
He  was  a  scion  of  that  great  house  of  poets  to  whom  our 
early  literature  owed  so  much.  His  father,  Giles  the 
elder,  was  the  Russian  traveller  and  the  author  oi  Licia ; 
his  elder  brother,  Phineas,  wrote  The  Purple  Island ;  his 
cousin  was  John  Fletcher,  the  dramatist.  The  exact 
date  of  his  birth  is  unknown,  but  circumstances  point  to 
1585  as  the  probable  year.  The  death  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth gave  him  his  first  opportunity  of  appearing  before 
the  public,  in  a  Canto  upon  the  Death  of  Eliza,  which 
was  printed  at  Cambridge  in  1603.  In  many  respects  it 
is  a  remarkable  little  poem,  especially  as  showing  the 
lad  to  have  been  already  intellectually  and  artistically 
adult.  The  form  of  stanza  chosen  is  exactly  what  Giles 
selected  afterwards  for  his  epic;  and  what  has  never 
been  used  (with  a  doubtful  exception  to  be  presently 
mentioned)   before   or   since   by   any  one  but  himself. 


138  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [C 11.  VI I. 

The  relation  to  Spenser,  too,  whose  followers  in  style  the 
whole  family  of  the  Fletchers  distinctly  were,  is  just  as 
determined  and  scarcely  more  excessive  than  in  his 
Chrisfs  Victory.  All  that  can  be  said  is  that  the  Canto 
displays  none  of  those  sudden  intense  beauties  that 
are  a  wonder  and  a  delight  in  its  author's  finished  style. 

Seven  quiet  years  of  clerical  study  at  Cambridge 
preceded  the  publication  of  Giles  Fletcher's  second  and 
only  other  book,  which  we  shall  proceed  to  examine. 
Its  success  was  very  small;  the  modest  author  put  aside 
without  a  sigh  the  lyre  that  "  malicious  tongues "  told 
him  was  out  of  tune;  he  became  popular  at  Cambridge 
as  a  preacher  for  a  little  while,  took  then  a  living  in  a 
seaside  hamlet  of  Suffolk,  where  the  rough  people  mis- 
read his  gentleness,  and  falling  by  degrees  into  melan- 
choly, he  died  soon,  in  1623,  being  at  the  most  not 
forty  years  of  age.  As  a  poet  his  career  closed  at 
twenty-five,  earlier  than  Shelley's  or  Beaumont's.  \xi 
spite  of  those  ''malicious  tongues,"  the  piety  of  his 
brother  Phineas  made  his  fame  live  just  long  enough  at 
Cambridge  to  fire  with  imperishable  fancies  the  young 
and  ardent  spirit  of  Milton. 

Of  all  the  works  written  in  direct  discipleship  of 
Spenser,  Christ'' s  Victory  is  undoubtedly  the  most  coherent 
and  the  best.  Such  prodigies  as  Pysche  can  only  be 
reverenced  far  off;  such  masses  of  poetic  concrete  as 
The  Turplc  Island  were  made  to  dip  into  and  to  quote 
rom.  Christ's  Victory  has  the  great  advantage  of  being 
easy  to  read  all  through.  In  its  style,  again,  we 
note  a  distinction  between  its  author  and  the  other 
learned  and  more  or  less  admirable  Spenserians;  while 


Ch.  VII.]  \  Giles  Fletcher,  139 

their  highesi\,siiccess  was  found  in  gaining  for  a  iittle  time 
that  serene  magnificence,  without  distinct  elevation, 
which  bore  their  model  on  upon  so  soft  and  so  steady  a 
wing,  Giles  Fletcher  aimed  at  higher  majesties  of  melody 
and  imagination  than  Spenser  attempted,  and  not  un- 
frequently  he  reached  a  splendour  of  phrase  for  a  parallel 
to  which  we  search  the  Faery  Queen  in  vain.  At  the 
same  time,  it  must  not,  in  all  candour,  be  forgotten  that 
he  lived  in  an  age  of  rapid  poetic  decadence,  and  that 
his  beautiful  fancies  are  sometimes  obscured  by  an  un- 
couth phraseology  and  a  studied  use  of  bizarre  and  taste- 
less imagery.  These  improprieties  and  extravagancies  of 
form  have,  it  cannot  be  denied,  a  certain  whimsical 
charm  of  their  own,  like  the  romanesque  ornaments  of 
debased  periods  in  Art,  nor  would  it  be  necessary  to 
dwell  on  them  as  a  positive  blemish,  if  their  adoption  in 
poetry  had  not  so  often  been  proved  to  be  the  inevitable 
precursor  of  decay.  But  these,  after  all  is  said,  and 
their  magnitude  pressed  to  its  full,  are  slight  stains 
on  a  writer  otherwise  so  royally  robed  in  pure  poetic 
purple. 

Chrisfs  Victory  and  Triumph  is  the  first  important 
religious  poem  in  seventeenth-century  English.  The  full 
title  is  Chrisfs  Victory  and  Triumph  in  Heavett  and  Earth, 
Over  and  After  Death,  and  it  is  divided  into  four  books, 
characterized  by  these  four  divisions  of  the  epical  theme. 
The  stanza  in  which  it  is  written  is  the  nine-lined  one  of 
Spenser,  compressed  into  an  octett  by  the  omission  of  the 
seventh  line,  and  so  deprived  of  that  fourth  rhyme  which 
is  one  of  its  greatest  technical  difficulties.  When  it  is 
added  that  each  book  contains  from  sixty  to  eighty  of 


140  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cir.  Vll. 

these  stanzas,  it  will  be  perceived  on  how  moderate  and 
reserved  a  scale  the  whole  has  been  composed ;  and  the 
treatment  is  sensibly  rendered  more  impressive  by  this 
very  reserve.  "Christ's  Victory  in  Heaven"  begins  with 
a  long  array  of  theological  paradoxes  in  the  favourite 
manner  of  the  time,  but  expressed  with  exceptional 
dignity ;  we  soon  find  ourselves  taken  up  to  heaven  and 
made  present  at  that  precise  moment  of  the  past  ages  in 
which  Mercy — ■ 

Lift  up  the  music  of  her  voice,  to  bar 
Eternal  Fate,  lest  it  should  quite  erase 
That  from  the  world  which  was  the  first  world's  grace. 

Justice,  however,  rises  to  oppose  her,  and  on  this  im- 
personation Fletcher  has  poured  out  the  richest  treasures 
of  his  imagination.  In  a  strain  that  recalls  the  ripest 
manner  of  Keats,  the  manner  that  is  of  Hyperion  ^n^ 
the  last  sonnets,  he  cries — 

She  was  a  Virgin  of  austere  regard  ; 

Not  as  the  world  esteems  her,  deaf  and  blind  ; 
But  as  the  eagle  that  hath  oft  compared 

Her  eye  with  Heaven's,  so,  and  more  brightly  shined 

Her  lamping  sight. 

A   little   later   on    and  we  might  persuade  ourselves 
that  it  was  Shelley  speaking,  and  in  Ado/uiis — 

The  winged  lightning  is  her  Mercury, 

And  round  about  her  mighty  thunders  sound  ; 

Impatient  of  himself  lies  pining  by 

Pale  Sickness  with  his  kercher'd  head  upwound. 

The   argument   of    Justice   being   that   mankind   has 
sinned  so  grossly  against  its  Maker  that  it  is  now  beyond 


Ch.  viL]  Giles  Fletcher.  141 

the  pale  of  hope,  Mercy  rises  to  defend  the  fallen  against 
so  sweeping  a  denunciation.  The  description  of  her 
personality  might  have  served  Coleridge  with  a  text  for 
his  favourite  sermon  on  the  difference  between  imagina- 
tion and  fancy.  Great  is  the  falling_off  from  th.e  simple 
grandeur  of  the  picture_of_Justice ;  the  charm  here  is 
more  superficial,  the  language  more  affected.  Mercy  is 
robed  in  garments  by  herself  embroidered  with  trees  and 
towers,  beasts,  and  all  the  wonders  of  the  world.  Above 
her  head  she  wears  a  headdress  of  azure  crape,  held  up 
by  silver  wire,  in  which  golden  stars  are  burning  against 
a  flood  of  milk-white  linen ;  a  diamond  canopy  hangs 
over  her,  supported  by  little  dancing  angels  and  by  King 
David.  After  she  has  pleaded^  Repentance  rises,  dis- 
consolate and  ill-favoured,  with  her  hair  full  of  ashes, 
whom  Mercy  pauses  to  comfort — 

Such  when  as  Mercy  her  beheld  from  high, 
In  a  dark  valley,  drowned  with  her  own  tears, 

One  of  her  Graces  she  sent  hastily, 
Smiling  Irene,  that  a  garland  wears 
Of  gilded  olive  on  her  fairer  hairs. 

To  crown  the  fainting  soul's  true  sacrifice  ; 

Whom  when  as  sad  Repentance  coming  spies, 
The  holy  desperado  wiped  her  swollen  eyes. 

Mercy  at  once  comforting  Repentance  and  assuaging 
Justice,  charges  the  worst  of  Man's  fault  upon  the  Devil, 
and  celebrates  Christ  from  his  nativity.  The  book  closes 
so,  with  a  peroration  that  is  sometimes  strangely  Miltonic, 
as  in  these  lines — 

The  angels  carolled  loud  their  song  of  praise, 
The  cursed  oracles  were  stricken  dumb, 


14^  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  vii. 

wliich '  jNIilton   simply    transferred    to   his    Ode    on    iJie 
Morning  of  Christ s  Nati'vity. 

The  second  part,  "  Christ's  Victory  on  Earth,'"'  is  in- 
ferior in  purity  of  style  to  the  preceding.  It  is  much 
more  overloaded  with  figurative  language  of  a  rococo 
kind,  with  a  choice  of  imagery  which  sacrifices  propriety  to 
magnificence,  and  with  that  paradoxical  kind  of  ornament 
which  is  called  conceit.  Mercy,  in  her  coach,  attended 
by  a  thousand  loves,  finds  Christ  in  the  wilderness,  and 
sinks,  unperceived,  into  His  breast.  He  is  then  minutely 
described  in  pretty  and  even  luxurious  language,  which 
resembles  nothing  so  much  as  the  jewelled  pictures  of 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi  and  Benozzo  Gozzoli,  full  of  flowers  and 
tall  plants,  gems  and  rare  raiment,  and  angels  with 
brilliant  wings,  where  all  is  sumptuous,  but  the  face  of 
the  ]\Iadonna  meaningless  and  vapid.  So  the  description 
here  of  Christ,  with  his  curly  jet  hair  and  his  strawberry- 
cream  complexion,  is  too  pretty  to  be  in  keeping  with  the 
solemnity  of  the  subject.  Soon  we  come  to  the  most 
famous  stanza  in  the  whole  poem — 

At  length  an  aged  sire  far  off  he  saw, 
Came  slowly  footing  ;  every  step  he  guesseJ. 

One  of  his  feet  he  from  the  grave  did  draw  ; 
Three  legs  he  had — the  wooden  was  the  best ; 
And  all  the  way  he  went,  he  ever  blest 

With  benedicites  and  prayers'  store  ; 

But  the  bad  ground  was  blessed  n'er  the  more  ; 
And  all  his  head  with  snow  of  age  was  waxen  hoar. 

A  good  old  hermit  he  might  seem  to  be, 
That  for  devotion  had  the  world  forsaken, 

And  now  was  travelling  some  saint  to  see, 
Since  to  his  beads  he  had  himself  betaken, 
Where  all  his  former  sins  he  might  awaken, 


Ch.  Vir.]  Giles  Flcicher.  143 

And  then  might  rush  away  with  dropping  brine, 
And  ahns,  ond  fasts,  and  church's  discipline, 
And,  dead,  might  rest  his  bones  under  the  holy  shrine. 

This,  it  will  be  remembered,  Milton  made  good  use  of  in 
Paradise  Regained^  which  should  be  read  all  through  in 
connection  with  Giles  Fletcher's  poem.  Fletcher,  in  his 
turn,  is  here  specially  under  obligation  to  Spenser,  from 
whom  we  find  him  presently  borrowing  two  whole  lines. 
The  most  significant  passage  in  the  rest  of  this  canto  is  the 
description  of  the  garden  and  the  court  of  Vain-Glory,  in 
which  Fletcher  attempts  the  peculiar  style  of  wdiich 
Spenser  is  most  admirably  a  master,  and  approaches  with 
extraordinary  success  to  the  sumptuous  and  splendid  rich- 
ness of  his  original. 

The  two  remaining  cantos  are  not  so  easy  to  describe, 
though  none  the  less  beautiful.  *'  Christ's  Triumph  over 
Death "  is  a  philosophical  disquisition  on  the  various 
modes  in  which  the  universe  was  affected  by  the  Triumph  ; 
there  is  now  no  action  and  little  description.  We  read 
here  of  the  crucifixion,  w^ith  the  shame  of  earth  and  the 
anger  of  heaven,  where — 

The  mazed  angels  shook  their  fiery  wingj^, 
Ready  to  lighten  vengeance  fi-om  God's  Throne, 

and  of  Christ's  earlier  passion  in  the  garden.  The 
fourth  canto,  "  Christ's  Triumph  after  Death,"  is,  in  fact, 
an  ecstatic  hymn  of  the  Resurrection,  and  the  beatific 
vision  of  God  in  Paradise.  The  gorgeous  and  luminous 
style  of  Giles  Fletcher  here  reaches  its  highest  pitch, 
and  we  find  ourselves  reminded,  though  without  imitation, 
of  Dante's  Paradiso,     The  joys  of  heaven  and  earth  in 


144  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  VII. 

redemption  are  celebrated  with  a  splendour  of  language 
hardly  to  be  met  with  elsewhere  in  the  whole  of  Protestant 
religious  literature. 

It  is  no  flaming  lustre,  made  of  light ; 

No  sweet  concent  or  well-tim'd  harmony  ; 
Ambrosia,  for  to  feast  the  appetite. 

Or  flowery  odour  mix'd  with  spicery  ; 

No  soft  embrace,  or  pleasure  bodily  ; 
And  yet  it  is  a  kind  of  inward  feast, 
A  harmony,  that  sends  within  the  breast 
An  odour,  light,  embrace,  in  which  the  soul  doth  rest. 

A  heavenly  feast,  no  hunger  can  consume  ; 

A  light  unseen,  yet  shines  in  every  place  ; 
A  sound,  no  time  can  steal ;  a  sweet  perfume. 

No  winds  can  scatter  ;  an  entire  embrace. 

That  no  satiety  can  e'er  unlace  ; 
Ingrac'd  into  so  high  a  favour,  there 
The  saints  with  their  beau-peres  whole  worlds  outwear, 
And  things  unseen  do  see,  and  things  unheard  do  hear. 

Ye  blessed  souls,  grown  richer  by  your  spoil, 

Whose  loss,  though  great,  is  cause  of  greater  gains, 

Here  may  your  weary  spirits  rest  fi'om  toil. 
Spending  your  endless  evening,  that  remains, 
Among  those  white  flocks  and  celestial  trains, 

That  feed  upon  their  Shepherd's  eyes,  and  frame 

That  heavenly  music  of  so  wondrous  fame, 
Psalming  aloud  the  holy  honours  of  his  name. 

Between  Giles  Fletcher  and  his  elder  brother  Phineas 
there  existed  the  closest  fraternal  affection"  and  in- 
tellectual sympathy,  and  we  find  repeated  in  the  works 
of  each  identical  fragments  of  expression.  The  difference 
between  them  simply  consisted  in  that  indefinable 
distinction  between  genius  and  talent.     But  while  Giles 


Ch.  VIL]  Phineas  FletcJier.  145 

is  for  ever  startling  us  with  such  incomparably  poetic 
phrases  as  "a  globe  of  winged  angels,"  ''the  laughing 
blooms  of  sallow,"  "wide-flaming  primroses,"  or  "the 
moon's  burning  horns,"  Phineas,  who  was  not  less 
accomplished,  and  who  lived  to  be  far  more  voluminous, 
never  reaches  this  white  heat  of  imagination.  He  is 
none  the  less  a  poet  of  remarkable  force  and  variety, 
curiously  individual,  and  worthy  of  close  examination. 
Phineas  Fletcher  was  born  at  Cranbrook  early  in  1582, 
the  eldest  son  of  Giles  Fletcher  the  >lder.  He  pro- 
ceeded to  Eton  and  to  King's  College,  Cambridge, 
residing  at  the  University  from  1600  to  16 16.  During 
these  years  his  poetry  was  mainly,  if  not  entirely,  written, 
although  most  of  it  first  saw  the  light  far  later;  in  161 1 
he  took  priest's  orders.  In  1621  Phineas  was  presented 
to  the  living  of  Hilgay  in  Norfolk,  where  he  seems  to 
have  stayed  till  the  Civil  War.  In  1670  we  are  told  that 
he  died  "  several  years  since  ;  "  many  of  his  descendants 
are  said  to  exist  still  in  the  parish  of  Hilgay. 

None  of  Phineas  Fletcher's  books  were  published 
until  after  the  reign  of  James  I.  But  what  was  probably 
the  latest  of  them,  the  Locusfes,  appeared  in  1627,  the 
"piscatory"  play  of  Sicelides  (written  in  16 14)  in  1631, 
and  the  volume  containing  The  Purple  Island^  or  the 
Isle  of  Ma?t,  together  ivith  Piscatory  Eclogues  and  other 
Poetical  Miscellanies,  in  1633.  The  volume  called  the 
Locustes  contains  the  satire  so  named,  which  is  in  Latin 
verse,  and  a  paraphrase  or  poem  of  like  theme  in 
English,  composed  in  a  nine-line  stanza  which  closely 
resembles  the  Spenserian.  This  is  called  The  ApollyoJiists, 
and  it  is  a  noble  epic  fragment  on  the  Fall  of  the  Rebel 


146  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  VII. 

Angels,  with  the  figure  of  Satan  as  that  of  the  hero  ; 
a  bitter  attack  on  the  Jesuits  is  introduced.  Milton  was 
not  only  well  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  Phineas 
Fletcher,  but  he  paid  to  the  Apollyonisis  the  compliment 
of  borrowing  more  from  it  than  from  any  other  work 
when  he  came  to  write  his  own  Paradise  Lost.  Sicelides 
is  a  choral  drama,  principally  in  rhyme,  with  comic 
prose  passages ;  the  romantic  story,  laid  in  Sicily, 
mainly  pieced  together  with  reminiscences  from  Ovid's 
Metamorphoses.  The  Piscatory  Eclogues  and  the  mis- 
cellaneous poems  are  so  obviously  variants  in  the  manner 
of  Phineas  Fletcher's  longest  and  most  famous  work  that 
we  may  pass  on  without  further  delay  to  a  description  of 
the  latter. 

Successive  generations  of  poetic  readers  have  been 
disappointed  to  find  that  T/ie  Purple  Island  is  not  some 
purpureal  province  of  fairyland  washed  by  *'  perilous 
seas  forlorn,"  but  the  ruddy  body  of  man,  laced  with 
veins  of  purple  blood.  The  poem,  in  fact,  is  an  allegory 
descriptive  of  the  corporeal  and  moral  qualities  of  a 
human  being,  carried  out  with  extreme  persistence,  even 
where  the  imagery  is  most  grotesque  and  inconvenient. 
From  internal  indications,  we  may  gather  that  The  Purple 
Island  was  written  early  in  Fletcher's  Cambridge  career, 
perhaps  about  1605,  while  his  brother  was  still  at  his 
side,  and  other  ardent  young  spirits  were  stirring 
Phineas  to  literary  emulation.  When  we  recover  from  the 
first  shock  of  the  plan,  we  have  to  confess  The  Purple 
Island  to  be  extremely  ingenious,  cleverly  sustained,  and 
adorned  as  tastefully  as  such  an  unseemly  theme  can  be 
by  the  embroideries  of  imaginative   writing.     In  mere 


Ch.  vil]  P /tineas  Fletcher.  147 

cleverness,  few  English  poems  of  the  same  length  have 
excelled  it,  and  its  vivacity  is  sustained  to  the  last 
stanza  of  the  last  canto. 

The  poet  supposes  himself  seated  in  summer  under 
the  orchard  walls  of  Cambridge,  by  the  slow  waters  of 
'^  learned  Chamus,"  in  company  with  two  pleasant  friends. 
With  them  he  discusses  poetry,  history,  fate,  and  his  own 
biography,  till  the  first  canto  closes  with  the  announce- 
ment that  he  proposes  to  sing  the  story  of  "  the  little 
Isle  of  Man,  or  Purple  Island."  At  the  opening  of  the 
second  canto,  Thirsil,  for  so  he  calls  himself,  is  discovered 
at  sunset  on  a  gentle  eminence  with  "a  lovely  crew  of 
nymphs  and  shepherd  boys  "  clustered  around  him,  and 
to  this  audience  he  pipes  his  strange  anatomical  ditty, 
each  successive  canto,  however  grisly  its  theme,  being 
presented  to  us  in  a  recurrence  of  this  delicate  pastoral 
setting. 

In  canto  two,  we  read  of  the  foundation  of  the  Purple 
Island,  its  rescue  from  decay,  the  marble  congelation 
of  its  bones,  the  azure  river-system  of  its  veins  and 
arteries,  the  rose-white  wall  of  its  skin,  and  all  the  quaint 
devices  by  which  the  poet  idealizes  its  digestive  system. 
The  third  canto,  after  so  exquisite  an  opening  as  this— 

The  morning  fresh,  dappling  her  horse  with  roses, 
Vexed  at  the  lingering  shades,  that  long  had  left  her 

In  Tithon's  freezing  arms,  the  light  discloses. 

And,  chasing  night,  of  rule  and  heaven  bereft  her, 

The  sun  with  gentle  beams  his  rage  disguises, 

And,  like  aspiring  tyrants,  temporises, 
Never  to  be  endured,  but  when  he  falls  or  rises, 

takes   an   immediate   plunge   into  the    liver  and    that 


148  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  VII. 

"porphyry  house"  in  which  "the  Isle's  great  Steward," 
the  heart,  dwells.  With  all  the  humours  and  exudations 
of  the  body  Phineas  Fletcher  laboriously  sports,  with 
a  plentiful  show  of  such  physiology  as  was  then  attainable. 
In  canto  four  the  heart  again  and  the  lungs  are  treated  ; 
in  canto  five  the  head,  the  face,  and  the  organs  which 
occur  in  it.  After  describing  the  tongue,  the  story  of 
Eurydice  is  told,  and  the  anatomical  portion  of  the 
allegory  is  concluded. 

It  is  a  pity  that  the  physiology  presses  in  so  early  in 
the  poem,  for  the  most  beautiful  part  is  yet  to  come. 
With  canto  six,  the  intellectual  and  moral  qualities  pass 
under  consideration,  and  in  particular  we  are  introduced 
to  the  will,  as  fair  Voletta,  and  to  that  "royal  damsel  and 
faithful  counsellor  "  Synteresis,  the  conscience.  In  cantos 
seven  and  eight,  the  vices  are  personified  at  great  length 
and  with  remarkable  vigour ;  in  cantos  nine  and  ten, 
the  virtues  are  similarly  introduced.  Cantos  eleven  and 
twelve  describe  a  sort  of  holy  war  in  Man's  members, 
and  the  battle  between  virtue  and  vice  which  revolution- 
izes the  Purple  Island.  Such  is  the  rough  outline  of 
a  work  which  resembles  none  other  in  our  language,  and 
which  is  so  curious  and  interesting  in  its  workmanship  as 
to  forbid  us  to  lament  the  extraordinary  nature  of  the 
author's  original  plan.  Having  chosen  a  theme  of  un- 
usual ugliness  and  aridity,  Phineas  Fletcher  has  contrived 
so  to  treat  it  as  to  produce  a  work  of  positive,  though  of 
course  Alexandrine  and  fantastic  beauty. 

A  passage  describing  the  shepherd's  life  maybe  quoted 
as  an  example  of  the  more  poetic  texture  of  The  Pur^^le 
Island — 


Cii.  VII.]       Phineas  Fletcher — Britain's  Ida.       149 

His  certain  life,  that  never  can  deceive  him, 
Is  full  of  thousand  sweets  and  rich  content ; 

The  smooth-leaved  beeches  in  the  field  receive  him 
With  coolest  shades,  till  noon-tide's  rage  is  spent ; 

His  life  is  neither  tossed  in  boisterous  seas 

Of  troublous  world,  nor  lost  in  slothful  ease  ; 
Pleased  and  full  blessed  he  lives,  when  he  his  God  can  please. 

His  bed  of  wool  yields  safe  and  quiet  sleep, 

While  by  his  side  his  faithful  spouse  hath  place  ; 

His  little  son  into  his  bosom  creeps, 
The  lively  picture  of  his  father's  face  ; 

Never  his  humble  house  or  state  torment  him  ; 

Less  he  could  like,  if  less  his  God  had  sent  him, 
And  when  he  dies,  green  turf  with  grassy  tomb  content  him. 

The  relation  of  Phineas  Fletcher  to  Spenser  is  very 
close,  but  the  former  possesses  a  distinct  individuality. 
He  is  enamoured  to  excess  of  the  art  of  personification, 
and  the  allegorical  figures  he  creates  in  so  great  abundance 
are  distinct  and  coherent,  with,  as  a  rule,  more  of  Sack- 
ville  than  of  Spenser  in  the  evolution  of  their  types.  In 
his  eclogues  he  imitates  Sannazaro,  but  not  without  a 
reminiscence  of  The  Shepherd's  Calendar.  Nevertheless, 
Spenser  is  the  very  head  and  fount  of  his  being,  and  the 
source  of  some  of  his  worst  mistakes,  for  so  bound  is 
Phineas  to  the  Spenserian  tradition  that  he  clings  to  it 
even  where  it  is  manifestly  unfitted  to  the  subject  he  has 
in  hand. 

In  1628  there  was  published  a  small  poem  called 
Britaiiis  Ida^  attributed  by  the  publisher  to  ''that 
renowned  poet  Edmund  Spenser."  It  is  obvious  that 
Spenser  did  not  write  this  elaborate  and  highly  Jacobean 
piece  of  voluptuousness,  which  bears  the  stamp  of  circa 


ISO  TJie  Jacobean  Poets,  [Cii.  VII. 

1 608.  There  is  absolutely  no  rumour  identifying  Britain's 
Ida,  which  shows  the  influence  of  Shakespeare  almost  as 
strongly  as  that  of  Spenser,  with  any  name.  But  it  is 
composed  in  the  very  peculiar  stanza  invented  by  Giles 
Fletcher,  and  it  is  full  of  phrases  and  locutions  after- 
wards published  in  the  writings  of  Phineas,  who  admits 
that  before  he  indited  the  Purple  Island,  he  had  learned — 

in  private  shades  to  feign, 
Soft  sighs  of  love  unto  a  looser  strain. 

The  use  of  double  rhymes,  what  Mr.  Saintsbury  (in 
another  connection)  describes  as  ''  the  adjustment  of  the 
harmony  of  the  individual  stanza  as  a  verse  paragraph," 
and  the  luscious  picturesqueness  of  the  imagery,  irresist- 
ably  suggest  the  Fletchers,  neither  of  whom,  in  his  youth, 
need  have  been  ashamed  of  the  workmanship  of  Britain's 
Ida,  though  to  each  of  them  its  sensuality  must  in 
advanced  years  have  seemed  reprehensible.  It  is  to  be 
noted  that  Giles  was  dead,  and  Phineas  still  living,  when 
this  work  was  published,  which  gives  some  probability  to 
the  authorship  of  the  former.  Britain's  Ida,  an  octavo 
pamphlet  of  nineteen  leaves^  is  a  narrative  of  the  class  of 
Vefins  and  Adonis,  in  six  brief  cantos. 

The  song  which  the  Boy  hears  proceeding  from  the 
bower  in  the  Garden  of  Delight  may  be  taken  as  a 
specimen  of  this  melodious  and  sensuous  poem  : — 

Fond  man,  whose  wretched  care  the  life  soon  ending, 
By  striving  to  increase  your  joy,  do  end  it ; 

And  spending  joy,  yet  find  no  joy  in  spending  ; 
You  hurt  your  life  by  striving  to  amend  it ; 

Then,  while  fit  time  affords  thee  time  and  leisure, 

Enjoy  while  yet  thou  may'st  thy  life's  sweet  pleasure ; 
Too  foolish  is  the  man  that  starves  to  feed  his  treasure. 


Ch.  VII,]  Joseph  Fletcher — Browne.  151 

Love  is  life's  end;  an  end,  but  never  ending; 

All  joys,  all  sweets,  all  happiness,  awarding  ; 
Love  is  life's  wealth  ;  ne'er  spent,  but  ever  spending  ; 

More  rich  by  giving,  taking  by  discarding  ; 

Love's  life's  reward,  rewarded  in  rewarding ; 
Then  from  thy  wretched  heart  fond  care  remove  ; 
Ah  !  should'st  thou  live  but  once  love's  sweet  to  prove, 
Thou  wilt  not  love  to  live,  unless  thou  live  to  love. 

Yet  another  poetical  Fletcher,  and  he  also  a  clergy- 
man, was  the  rector  of  Wilby  in  Suffolk.  It  is,  however, 
believed  that  Joseph  Fletcher  was  not  of  the  many- 
laurelled  family.  He  was  born  about  1577,  and  from 
1609  till  his  death  in  1637  held  the  benefice  above 
named.  He  seems  to  have  written  love-poems  in  his 
early  career,  "sweet  baits  to  poison  youth,"  (can  it  be 
he  who  wrote  Britain's  Ida?)  but  these  are  lost.  His 
existing  works  are  two  long  High-Church  devotional 
poems,  Christ's  Bloody  Sweat,  16 13,  in  six-line  stanza. 
The  Perfect- Cursed- Blessed  Man,  1629,  in  heroic 
couplet.  The  latter  is  a  ragged  performance ;  the  former 
has  a  good  deal  of  limpid  Spenserian  grace.  A  single 
stanza  may  give  an  idea  of  Joseph  Fletcher's  manner — 

He  died,  indeed,  not  as  an  actor  dies, 
To  die  to-day  and  live  again  to-morrow, 

In  show  to  please  the  audience,  or  disguise 
The  idle  habit  of  enforced  sorrow  ; 

The  cross  his  stage  was,  and  he  played  the  part 

Of  one  that  for  his  friend  did  pawn  his  heart. 

William  Browne,  of  Tavistock,  was  born  in  158S.  He 
went  to  Exeter  College,  Oxford,  about  1605,  and  thence 
to  London,  where  he  was  admitted  of  the  Inner  Temple 
early  in  16 13.  His  first  book  oi  Britannia's  Pastorals  is 
addressed   from  that  society  a  few  months   later,  and, 


152  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  Vll. 

although  the  foHo  is  undated,  was  probably  issued  at  the 
close  of  1 6 13.  x\n  Elegy  on  Prince  Henry  was  published 
in  1613,  and  The  Shepherd's  Pipe  in  1614.  BooJz  IT.  of 
BritannicCs  Pastorals  appeared  in  1 6 1 6 ;  Book  II I. ^  which 
was  preserved  in  manuscript  in  the  Cathedral  Library, 
Salisbury,  not  until  185 1.  The  Inner  Temple  Masque  was 
first  printed,  from  the  manuscript  in  Emmanuel  College, 
Cambridge,  in  1772,  and  his  miscellaneous  poems  in 
1 8 15,  so  that  all  that  was  not  posthumous  of  Browne's 
appeared  before  he  was  thirty.  He  went  back  to 
residence  in  Oxford  in  1624,  and  is  supposed  to  be  the 
William  Browne  who  was  buried  at  Tavistock  on  the 
27th  of  March,  1643.  He  was  early  the  friend  of  Ben 
Jonson,  Selden,  and  Drayton,  but  as  life  advanced  grew 
melancholy  and  unsocial.  Prince  says  that  he  had  "  a 
great  mind  in  a  little  body." 

The  very  high  praise  awarded  by  some  critics  to  the 
poetry  of  Browne  is  somewhat  unaccountable.  To 
compare  him  with  Keats,  as  has  been  done,  is  quite 
preposterous.  In  his  work  we  have  a  return  to  the  pure 
Elizabethan  manner,  loose  and  fluid  versification,  and 
ingenuous  pursuit  of  simple  beauty.  But  the  early  fresh- 
ness of  the  pastoral  poets  is  gone,  and  the  archaic  words, 
introduced  in  imitation  of  Spenser,  have  lost  their  illusion. 
Browne  is  happiest  in  single  lines,  such  as — 

An  uncouth  place  fit  for  an  uncouth  mind, 

or, 

Shrill  as  a  thrush  upon  a  morn  of  May, 

but  these  beauties  are  infrequent.  His  genuine  love  of 
natural    scenery    and    phenomena   gives   charm   to   liis 


Ch.  VII.]  •      Browne.  153 

occasional  episodes,  and  his  poems  have  a  species  of 
local  propriety ;  they  suggest  his  early  haunts,  the  Tavy 
brawling  down  from  Dartmoor  between  its  rocks  and 
wooded  glens,  the  ancient  borough  of  Tavistock,  the 
"  sandy  Plim,"  and,  farther  away,  the  Channel  with  its 
'*  sea-binding  chains."  Vaguely,  and  at  intervals,  this 
Devonshire  scenery  is  revealed  to  us  for  a  moment  by  a 
turn  in  Browne's  conventional  poetry. 

A  sort  of  story  runs  through  the  long,  unfinished  poem 
in  heroic  couplet  called  Britannia's  Pastorals,  but  it  is 
exceedingly  difficult  to  seize.  The  first  book  was 
published  in  1613,  the  same  year  that  saw  the  issue  of 
the  Foly-Olbion,  but  Browne  sings  of  "dear  Britannia" 
in  a  mode  diametrically  opposed  to  that  of  his  friend 
Drayton.  There  is  neither  geography,  nor  antiquity, 
nor,  in  spite  of  a  flourish  about 

The  snow-white  cliffs  of  fertile  Albion, 

even  patriotism.  It  is  simply  a  very  vague  and  mawkish 
tale  of  semi-supernatural  love-making  in  south-western 
Devonshire.  There  is  one  Marina,  who,  loving  Celandine, 
but  doubtful  of  the  direction  of  his  passion,  determines 
on  suicide  in  the  Tavy.  She  flings  herself  in,  and  a 
young  shepherd  takes  her  out  again.  The  story  moves 
at  a  snail's  pace,  amid  unrestrained  long-winded  dialogue. 
Marina,  still  despairing,  flings  herself  into  a  well  or  pool, 
and  the  first  canto  closes.  The  God  of  the  pool  saves 
her,  and  he  and  a  nymph,  his  sister,  converse,  at  extreme 
length,  in  octosyllabics.  Marina  casually  drinks  of  a 
magic  spring,  and  has  the  good  fortune  to  forget 
Celandine.     But  a  wicked  shepherd  carries  her  off  in 


154  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  VIl. 

a  boat.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  follow  the  thread  of 
narrative  further,  for  Browne  was  absolutely  devoid  of 
all  epic  or  dramatic  talent.  His  maids  and  shepherds 
have  none  of  the  sweet  plausibility  which  enlivens  the 
long  recitals  of  Spenser.  They  outrage  all  canons  of 
common  sense.  When  a  distracted  mother  wants  to 
know  if  a  man  has  seen  her  lost  child,  she  makes  the 
inquiry  in  nineteen  lines  of  deliberate  poetry.  An  air 
of  silliness  broods  over  the  whole  conception.  Marina 
meets  a  lovely  shepherd,  whose  snowy  buskins  display  a 
still  silkier  leg,  and  she  asks  of  him  her  way  to  the 
marish ;  he  misunderstands  her  to  say  ''  marriage,"  and 
tells  her  that  the  way  is  through  love ;  she  misunder- 
stands him  to  refer  to  some  village  so  entitled,  and  the 
languid  comedy  of  errors  winds  on  through  pages. 

The  best  of  the  poem  consists  in  its  close  and  pretty 
pictures  of  country  scenes.  At  his  best,  Browne  is  a 
sort  of  Bewick,  and  provides  us  with  vignettes  of  the 
squirrel  at  play,  a  group  of  wrens,  truant  schoolboys,  or 
a  country  girl. 

When  she  upon  her  breast,  love's  sweet  repose, 
Doth  bring  the  Queen  of  Flowers,  the  English  Rose. 

But  these  happy  ''  bits  "  are  set  in  a  terrible  waste  of 
what  is  not  prose,  but  poetry  and  water,  foolish  babbling 
about  altars  and  anagrams,  long  lists  of  blooms  and  trees 
and  birds,  scarcely  characterized  at  all,  soft  rhyming 
verse  meandering  about  in  a  vaguely  pretty  fashion  to 
no  obvious  purpose.  On  the  first  book  of  Britaimia's 
Pastorals  the  stamp  of  extreme  youth  is  visible  clearly 
enough ;  but  the  second  book,  which  belongs  to  Browne's 
manhood,  and  the  two  cantos  of  the  third,  which  probably 


Cii.  VIL]  Broivne.  155 

date  from  his  advanced  age,  show  Uttle  more  skill  in  the 
evolution  of  a  story,  or  power  in  making  the  parts  of 
a  poem  mutually  cohere. 

The  seven  eclogues  of  the  Shepherd's  Pipe  which  are 
Browne's  (for  this  was  a  composite  work  in  which 
Brooke,  Wither,  and  Davies  of  Hereford  joined)  arc 
designed  closely  in  the  manner  of  Spenser,  in  lyrical 
measures  of  great  variety  and  not  a  little  sweetness. 
The  fourth,  on  the  death  of  Philarete,  is  the  finest, 
and  is  supposed  to  have  influenced  Milton  in  the  com- 
position of  Lycidas ;  for  this  is  an  elegy,  rather  than  an 
eclogue,  and  a  very  melodious  specimen  of  its  class.  It 
may  be  interesting  to  note,  as  showing  the  especial 
attraction  felt  by  Milton  to  all  the  poets  of  this  Spenserian 
school,  that  in  Mr.  Huth's  library  there  exists  a  copy  of 
Browne  copiously  annotated  in  the  hand  of  his  great 
successor.  The  Liner  Temple  Masque,  which  was  pre- 
pared for  performance  about  1617,  opens  with  this  Song 
of  the  Sirens,  the  most  perfect  of  Browne's  poems — 

Steer  hither,  steer  your  winged  pines, 

All  beaten  mariners ! 
Here  lie  love's  undiscovered  mines, 

A  prey  to  passengers, — 
Perfumes  far  sweeter  than  the  best 
Which  make  the  Phoenix'  urn  and  nest  ; 

Fear  not  your  ships, 
Nor  any  to  oppose  you  save  our  lips  ; 

But  come  on  shore, 
Where  no  joy  dies  till  love  halh  gotten  more. 

For  swelling  waves,  our  panting  ireasts, 
Where  never  storms  arise, 
>   Exchange  ;  and  be  awhile  our  guests, 
For  stars  gaze  in  our  eyes  ; 


15^  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  Vll. 

The  compass  Love  shall  hourly  sing, 
And  as  he  goes  about  the  ring, 

We  will  not  miss 
To  tell  each  point  he  nameth  with  a  kiss  ; 

Then  come  on  shore, 
Where  no  joy  dies  till  love  hath  gotten  more. 

The  masque,  a  slight  and  picturesque  affair,  deals 
with  the  story  of  Circe  and  Ulysses.  Among  the  mis- 
cellaneous poems  of  Browne,  now  appears  the  celebrated 
epitaph  on  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke,  long 
attributed  to  Ben  Jonson — 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother  ; 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another 
Fair  and  learn'd  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee, 

but  the  manner  does  not  recall  that  of  Browne,  and 
the  authorship  of  this  pathetic  trifle  must  still  be  held 
dubious. 

A  writer  of  the  same  class  and  group  as  Browne,  but 
of  inferior  talent,  has  been  revealed  to  us  this  year,  and 
for  the  first  time,  by  the  piety  of  ]\Ir.  Warwick  Bond. 
William  Basse  was  born  about  1583  and  died  about  1660. 
He  published  one  or  two  pamphlets  in  the  last  years  of 
Elizabeth,  but  after  1602  was  scarcely  heard  of,  although 
he  wrote  ambitiously  and  abundantly.  Basse  was  the 
author  of  an  elegy  on  Shakespeare,  which  was  the  only 
fragment  of  his  writings  familiar  to  any  one  until  j\Ir. 
Bond  edited  his  manuscript  works.  We  may  now  study 
his  Pastorals^  his  Unifiia,  his  Metamorphosis  of  the 
Walmit-Tree,  and  portions  of  his  lost  Potyhym?iia,     But 


Ch.  VII.]  Basse— Brooke. 


57 


Basse,  though  an  elaborate  is  a  very  tame  and  tedious 
rhymer,  whose  vein  of  Spenserian  richness  soon  wore 
out,  and  left  nothing  but  an  awkward  and  voluble  affecta- 
tion behind  it.  He  held  a  dependent  position  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Thame  Park,  and  describes  himself 
as  one 

that  ne'er  gazed  on  Cheapside's  glistening  row, 
Nor  went  to  bed  by  the  deep  sound  of  Bow, 
But  lent  my  days  to  silver-colour'd  sheep, 
And  from  strawn  cotes  borrowed  my  golden  sleep. 

Christopher  Brooke  retains  a  minute  niche  in  literary 
history  as  the  intimate  friend  of  Donne  and  Browne,  and 
as  a  singularly  sympathetic  companion  of  poets.  Much 
was  expected  of  him;  in  1616  Browne  declared  of 
Brooke  that  his 

polished  lines 
Are  fittest  to  accomplish  high  designs, 

but,  beyond  an  occasional  elegy  or  eclogue,  he  did 
nothing.  Brooke  was  the  "  Cuttie  "  of  the  coterie  who 
published  The  Shepherd's  Pipe,  to  which  he  contributed 
a  poem  of  small  importance.  He  was  the  chamber- 
fellow  to  Donne,  and  shared  the  penalties  of  that 
passionate  youth's  clandestine  marriage.  Christopher 
Brooke  is,  among  the  Jacobean  poets,  the  figure  which 
every  literary  "set"  supplies,  the  man  in  whom  con- 
temporary eyes  detect  endless  promise  of  genius,  and 
in  whom  posterity  can  see  scarcely  anything  to  arrest 
attention. 

The  age  of  James  I.  was  not,  like  that  of  Elizabeth, 
rich  in  great  poetical  translators.  Almost  the  only 
version  which  calls  for  notice  is  that  of  Lucan's  Phar- 


15S  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  vii. 

salia,  by  Sir  Arthur  Gorges,  who  died  in  1625.  Gorges, 
the  kinsman  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  and  the  friend  and 
associate  of  Spenser,  was  rather  an  Elizabethan  than 
a  member  of  our  period.  But  he  exchanged  arms  for 
poetry  late  in  life,  and  did  not  produce  his  Lucan  until 
1614. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

TOURNEUR — WEBSTER — DAY DABORNE. 

A  MAJESTIC  but  shadowy  figure  is  rather  conjectured 
than  seen  to  cross  the  stage  in  the  person  of  the  author 
of  The  Revenger's  Tragedy.  Of  no  poet  do  we  know 
less,  and  of  none  would  it  be  more  hazardous  to  conceive 
the  way  in  which  he  moved  and  lived  among  his  fellow- 
creatures.  He  may  have  been  harmless  and  industrious, 
but  if  he  can  be  supposed  to  be  painted  in  his  writings, 
he  must  have  been  the  most  caustic,  insolent,  and  sinister 
of  men.  It  is  difficult  to  justify  the  fascination  which  the^ 
tragedies  of  Cyril  Tourneur  exercise  over  us.  Works  more 
faulty  in  construction,  more  inadequate  in  execution,  more 
strained  or  hysterical  in  emotion  can  scarcely  be  found 
in  the  range  of  recognized  dramatic  literature.  Those  of  j 
us  who  have  shaken  with  inward  laughter  over  Voltaire's 
grave  analysis  of  Hamlet  and  le  tetidre  Otway  cannot  but 
feel  how  exquisitely  funny,  how  preposterously  monstrous. 
The  Atheisfs  Tragedy  would  have  seemed  to  the  strong 
intelligence  of  the  apostle  of  common  sense.  Indeed,  to 
subject  the  writings  of  Tourneur  to  parody  or  burlesque 
would  be  a  sheer  waste  of  ingenuity.  No  transpontine 
melodrama  could  possibly,  in  its  wildest  flights  of  frenzy, 
approach  the  last  act  of  The  Revenger ;  no  parodist  in 


l6o  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  Vlil. 

\   any  happy  moment  of  genius  could  hope  to  surpass  the 

\  brilliant   idea  that  induces  Charlmont  and  Castabella, 

in  the  midst  of  an  interesting  churchyard  conversation, 

suddenly  to  lie  down  in  a  grave,  "  with  either  of  them  a 

death's  head  for  a  pillow." 

But  in  breathing  the  intense  and  magnetic  air  of 
Jacobean  tragedy  the  purely  modern  notion  of  the 
ridiculous  must  be  avoided  as  an  explosive  substance 
dangerous  to  the  entire  fabric  of  the  imagination,  and 
to  laugh  is  to  stir  the  thunder  which  may  bring  the 
1  whole  house  about  our  ears.  Yet  even  when  we 
approach  Cyril  Tourneur  with  chastened  senses,  and 
judge  him  by  the  standard  of  his  contemporaries,  we  do 
not  at  once  perceive  the  unique  quality  of  his  writing. 
It  is  hardly  possible  to  compare  the  plays  of  Webster 
with  those  under  consideration  without  perceiving  that 
the  author  of  The  Duchess  of  Malfy  was  the  superior  in 
everything  that  appeals  to  the  heart  and  the  fancy,  in 
tragic  tenderness,  in  grasp  of  human  character,  in  that 
flowery  lyricism  that  robs  death  of  half  its  horrors. 
Comparing  Tourneur,  again,  with  Ford,  we  must  at 
once  concede  supremacy  in  passion  and  feeling  to  the 
later  poet ;  and  at  last,  by  indulging  thus  in  'mere  paral- 
lelisms, we  may  easily  satisfy  ourselves  that  Tourneur 
was  a  very  indifferent  poet  indeed.  And  yet  we  read  his 
two  tragedies  again  and  again  ;  we  are  powerless  to  resist 
the  spell  of  his  barbaric  harmonies,  and  we  are  forced  to 
admit  that  he  knew,  in  spite  of  all  his  crude  affectations, 
the  right  mode" to  purge  the  soul  with  pity  and  terror. 

Perhaps    the   best   way   to   understand   wherein    the 
unique  poetic  element  in  Tourneur's  work  really  consists 


Ch.  VIII.]  Tournenr.  i6i 

is  to  read  hiy  greatest  poem,  The  Revenger's  Tragedy^ 
once  more  carefully  through.  The  opening  impresses 
the  imagination,  but  with  some  confusion.  It  is  not 
wholly  plain  at  first  that  Vindici  stands  on  a  balcony, 
with  the  skull  of  his  mistress  in  his  hand,  and  apostro- 
phizes the  wild  throng  of  revellers  who  pass  along  the 
stage  below  by  torchlight.  This  is  weird  and  splendid 
in  conception ;  but  we  pass  on.  Vindici  has  a  brother 
Hippolito — a  little  tamer  than  himself — a  mother,  and  a 
fair  sister,  Castiza.  The  poet  desires  to  give  the  im- 
pression of  a  like  unbending  temper  in  each  of  the 
three  children ;  he  scarcely  avoids  making  all  three 
repulsive.  We  are  presently  introduced  to  a  duke  and 
duchess,  and  to  their  various  children,  five  in  number, 
whose  figures  pass  in  and  out,  engaged  in  more  or  less 
terrible  vices,  but  almost  undistinguishable  to  us  who 
have  no  clue  of  face  or  dress  to  guide  us. 

The  first  act  is  concluded,  and  the  peculiar  power  of  the 
poet  has  not  been  revealed ;  but  the  second  opens  with  a 
scene  that  rivets  our  attention.  Vindici,  in  disguise,  acts 
as  pander  between  one  of  the  Duke's  sons  and  his  own 
sister,  Castiza,  all  the  while  earnestly  trusting  that  she  will 
resist  his  subtle  arguments.  His  mother  he  seduces  to 
connivance,  or  more;  but  Castiza  has  the  stubborn  virtue 
of  her  race.  With  much  that  is  fantastic,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  this  situation  is  highly  dramatic ;  but  we 
are  not  deeply  moved  by  it  until  the  perverted  mother 
attempts  to  over-persuade  her  daughter,  and  then  we 
are  lifted  on  a  wave  of  excitement  which  breaks  in  some- 
thing like  agony  as  Castiza  cries —  ..^ 
"  Mother,  come  from  that  poisonous  woman  theveiiL  X^  JC"  >~ 


1 62  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  Vlll. 

This  line,  the  finest  in  all  Tourneur's  writings,  is  the 
key-note  to  the  charm  he  exercises  over  us  in  spite  of 
our  reason.  This  fiery  indignation ;  this  fierce  severance 
of  the  sinner  from  the  sin ;  in  short,  the  intense  moral 
and  intellectual  sincerity  underlying  the  jargon  of  an 
affected  and  imperfect  style,  and  burning  its  way  through 
into  faultless  expression  at  moments  of  the  highest 
excitement — this  is  what  fascinates  and  overpowers  us 
in  Cyril  Tourneuf.  I  He  is  as  foul  as  Marston,  but  he 
loathes  the  filth  he  touchesjj  there  is  no  amorous 
dandling  of  a  beloved  error  as  in  Ford.  So  patent  is 
the  sincerity  of  this  man  that  we  might  even  without 
paradox  say  that  we  value  him  more  for  what  we  feel  he 
could  have  written  than  for  anything  he  actually  did 
write.  That  his  point  of  view  is  unhealthy;  that  his 
knowledge  of  the  heart  was  limited ;  and  that  his  lurid 
imagination  dwelt  only  on  the  diseases  of  society,  must 
not  blind  us  to  this  sterling  quality. 

Our  knowledge  of  Cyril  Tourneur's  life  is  entirely 
confined  to  the  titles  and  dates  of  his  works.  In  1600 
he  published  a  crude  and  affected  poem  in  rime  ro}^ 
called  The  Transformed  Metamorphosis^  which  is  as 
nearly  worthless  as  possible.  The  Revenger's  Tragedy^ 
which  has  been  described  above,  was  printed  in  1607. 
In  1 61 1  appeared  The  Atheist's  Tragedy,  which  it  has 
been  usual  to  take  for  granted  must  have  been  written 
at  a  date  precedent  to  1607,  because  of  its  marked 
inferiority  to  the  Revenger ;  but  this  is  a  very  unsafe 
argument,  as  the  indubitably  dated  works  of  such  writers 
as  Dekker  may  suggest.  In  161 2  Cyril  Tourneur 
entered  on  the  Stationer's  Registers  a  tragi-comedy  of 


Ch.  VIII.]  Tourneur.  163 

T/ie  Nobleman^  which,  to  the  great  regret  of  his  admirers, 
has  disappeared.  The  same  fate  has  overtaken  The 
Airaignement  of  London^  which  was  written  in  161 3  by 
Tourneur  in  combination  with  Daborne.  When  we  have 
mentioned  two  short  copies  of  verses,  we  have  chronicled 
all  that  is  known  of  Cyril  Tourneur. 

A  very  raw  production,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  The 
Atheist's  Tragedy^  but  it  contains  some  magnificent 
passages  of  poetry.  Among  them  the  following  is,  or 
should  bC;  known  to  every  educated  reader — 

Walking  next  day  upon  the  fatal  shore, 
Among  the  slaughtered  bodies  of  their  men, 
Which  the  full-stomach'd  sea  had  cast  upon 
The  sands,  it  was  my  unhappy  chance  to  light 
Upon  a  face,  whose  favour  when  it  liv'd. 
My  astonish'd  mind  inform'd  me  I  had  seen. 
He  lay  in  his  armour,  as  if  that  had  been 
His  coffin  ;  and  the  weeping  sea,  like  one 
Whose  milder  temper  doth  lament  the  death 
Of  him  whom  in  his  rage  he  slew,  runs  up 
The  shore,  embraces  him,  kisses  his  cheek, 
Goes  back  again,  and  forces  up  the  sands 
To  bury  him,  and  every  time  it  parts 
Sheds  tears  upon  him,  till  at  last  (as  if 
It  could  no  longer  endure  to  see  the  man 
W^hom  it  had  slain,  yet  loath  to  leave  him)  with 
A  kind  of  unresolv'd  unwilling  face, 
Winding  her  waves  one  in  another,  like 
A  man  that  folds  his  arms  or  wrings  his  hands 
For  grief,  ebbed  from  the  body,  and  descends 
As  if  it  would  sink  down  into  the  earth. 
And  hide  itself  for  shame  of  such  a  deed. 

But  Tourneur  is  quite  unable  to  remain  at  this  altitude 
of  style.  No  themes  appeal  to  him  except  those  involved 
in  gloom  and  horror,  and  this  strict  limitation  of  interests 


1 64  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  vill. 

makes  him  fail,  beyond  the  wont  of  his  violent  compeers, 
in  dramatic  propriety.  Mr.  Swinburne  has  happily  said 
oi  The  Atheisf s  Tragedy  that  "there  never  was  such  a 
thunderstorm  of  a  play,"  so  violent  and  black  is  the  cloud 
that  hangs  over  it,  so  fitful  and  lurid  the  occasional 
gleams  of  light.  D'Amville,  the  bad  hero  of  the  play,  is 
a  murderous  villain  of  the  most  incredible  kind,  whose 
only  pleasure  is  to  conspire  against  virtuous  victims  in  a 
manner  as  crazy  as  it  is  atrocious.  His  generous  son, 
Sebastian,  scarcely  relieves  the  blackness  of  the  study. 
There  is  a  vague  charm  about  the  lovers,  Charlamont 
and  Castabella,  The  versification,  which  one  critic 
finds  "rich,  soft,  and  buoyant,"  to  readers  of  ordinary 
senses  will  probably  seem  as  harsh  and  inelastic,  though 
certainly  not  as  poor,  as  any  they  will  meet  with  in  the 
repertory  of  any  indubitable  poet.  Certain  passages 
always  excepted.  The  Atheist's  Tragedy  would  scarcely 
be  read,  were  it  not  written  by  the  author  of  The 
Revenger's  Tragedy ^  which,  with  all  its  palpable  short- 
comings, is  one  of  the  noblest  productions  of  its  class 
and  time. 

Among  all  the  purely  Jacobean  dramatists  there  is  not 
one  who  has  drawn  to  himself  so  keen  an  interest  from 
the  poets  and  critics  of  the  present  century  as  John 
Webster,  to  whose  work  the  transition  from  The  Revenger  s 
Tragedy  is  unusually  easy.  It  is  unfortunate  that  so 
singular  and  sympathetic  a  figure  should  be  to  us  a  name 
and  hardly  anything  more.  He  was  probably  born  about 
1580,  and  he  tells  us  that  he  was  "one  born  free  of  the 
Merchant-Tailors'  Company."  According  to  Gildon — 
who   wrote,  it  is  true,  nearly  a  century  later— he   was 


Cii.  viiL]  Webster.  165 

clerk  of  St.  Andrew's  Parish  in  Holborn.  He  made  his 
will,  and  probably  died,  in  1625.  He  began  to  write  for 
the  stage  about  1602,  and  was  originally  one  of  those 
collaborators  who  were  so  numerous  at  that  period,  and 
are  now  so  perplexing  to  critics.  We  need  not,  perhaps, 
regret  that  Ccesar's  Fall  and  Two  Harpies,  which  he 
produced  in  company  with  Drayton  and  others  in  1602, 
are  lost,  suggestive  as  is  the  second  title.  In  1607  was 
published  The  Famous  History  of  Sir  Thomas  JVyatt, 
which  is  considered  to  be  Webster's  and  Dekker's  portion 
of  a  composite  play  written  by  them  and  three  others  in 
the  yeai  1 602.  The  conditions  under  which  this  chronicle 
was  printed  are  very  unfavourable  to  our  impression  of  it, 
but  the  opening  scenes  have  not  a  little  of  Webster's 
historical  manner. 

Webster  is  conjectured  to  have  written  the  fine  "  In- 
duction" to  the  Malcontent  of  Marston,  which  was 
published  in  1604,  and  in  1607  were  printed  two 
comedies,  in  which  he  had  collaborated  with  Dekker. 
Of  these  Westward  Hoe  /  was  written,  perhaps,  in  1603, 
and  Northward  Hoe  !  in  1605.  The  hand  of  Webster  is 
unmistakably  prominent  in  both,  Dekker  probably 
supplying  but  a  few  farcical  scenes.  These  two  plays 
are  brisk  and  well-constructed,  and  may  rank  among  the 
best  average  comedies  of  the  period.  They  should  be 
read  in  conjunction  with  iho.  Fastward  Hoe  /  of  Jonson, 
Chapman,  and  Marston,  printed  in  1605  ;  each  is 
in  prose.  We  may  continue  the  list  of  Webster's  works. 
The  White  Devil,  or  the  Life  afid  Death  of  Vittoria 
Coromhona,  though  not  pubhshed  until  161 2,  was  acted 
about  1608  ;  Appius  and  Virgi?iia,  printed  first  in  1654, 


1 66  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  VIII. 

must  have  been  written  in   1609,  and  The  Devil's  Laiu 
Case  in  1610,  though  it  did  not  appear  until  1623.     The 
Duchess  of  Malfy,  printed  in   1623,  was  attributed  by 
Malone,  and  probably  with  truth,  to  161 2.     There  is  no 
direct  evidence  that  Webster  was  connected,  after  the 
last-mentioned  year,  with  the  regular  stage,  although  we 
find  him  engaged  on  a  city  pageant  in  1624,  when  a 
member  of  his  own  company  was  mayor.     He  was  pro- 
bably the  cloth-worker  who  died  in  the  autumn  of  1625. 
Webster's  masterpiece  is    The  Duchess  of  Malfy^  of 
which  it  may  confidently  be  alleged  that  it  is  the  finest 
tragedy  in  the  English  language  outside  the  works  of 
Shakespeare.     The  poet  found  his   story  in  thaj;  store- 
house of  plots,  the  Novelle  of  Bandello,  but  it  had  been 
told  in  English  by  others  before  him.     It  was  one  pre- 
eminently suited  to  inflame  the  sombre  and  enthusiastic 
imagination   of    Webster,    and    to    inspire    this    great, 
irregular  and  sublime  poem.     Dramatic,  in  the  accepted 
sense,  it  may  scarcely  be  called.     In  the  nice  conduct  of 
a  reasonable  and  interesting  plot  to  a  satisfactory  con- 
clusion,  Webster   is   not   the   equal   of   Fletcher  or  of 
Massinger  ;  some  still  smaller  writers  may  be  considered 
to  surpass  him  on  this  particular  ground.      But  he  aimed 
at  something  more,  or  at  least,   something  other,  than 
the  mere  entertainment  of  the  groundlings.     With  un- 
usual solemnity  he  dedicates  his  tragedy  to  his  patron  as  a 
''poem,"  and  his  contemporaries  perceived  that  this  was 
a  stronger  and  more  elaborate  piece  of  dramatic  archi- 
tecture than  the  eye  was  accustomed  to  see  built  for  half 
a  dozen  nights,  and  then  disappear.     Ford,  when  he  read 
The  Duchess  of  Ma  If y^  exclaimed — 


Cir.  VIII.]  Webster.  167 

Crown  him  a  poet,  whom  nor  Rome  nor  Greece 
Transcend  in  all  theirs  for  a  masterpiece, 

and  Middleton  described  it  as  Webster's  own  monument, 
fashioned  by  himself  in  marble.  He  had  the  reputation 
of  being  a  slow  and  punctilious  writer,  among  a  set  of 
poets,  with  whom  a  ready  pen  was  more  commonly  in 
fashion.  We  look  to  Webster  for  work  designed  at 
leisure,  and  executed  with  critical  and  scrupulous 
attention.  This  carefulness,  however,  was  unfavourable 
to  a  well-balanced  composition,  the  movement  of  the 
whole  being  sacrificed  to  an  extraordinary  brilliancy  in 
detailed  passages,  and  though  The  Duchess  of  Malfy  has 
again  and  again  been  attempted  on  the  modern  stage, 
each  experiment  has  but  emphasized  the  fact  that  it  is 
pre-eminently  a  tragic  poem  to  be  enjoyed  in  the  study. 

It  is  curious  that  in  a  writer  so  distinguished  by  care  in 
the  working  out  of  detail,  we  should  find  so  lax  a  metrical 
system  as  marks  The  Duchess  of  Malfy.  Here,  again, 
Webster  seems  to  be  content  to  leave  the  general  surface 
dull,  while  burnishing  his  own  favourite  passages  to  a 
high  lustre.  He  has  lavished  the  beauties  both  of  his 
imagination  and  of  his  verse  on  what  Mr.  Swinburne 
eloquently  calls  '"'the  overwhelming  terrors  and  the 
overpowering  beauties  of  that  unique  and  marvellous 
fourth  act,  in  which  the  genius  of  the  poet  spreads  its 
fullest  and  darkest  wing  for  the  longest  and  the  strongest 
of  its  flights." 

This  is  what  Bosola  ejaculates  when  the  Duchess  dies^ 

O,  she's  gone  again  !     There  the  cords  of  life  broke. 

O  sacred  innocence,  that  sweetly  sleeps 

On  turtle's  feathers,  whilst  a  guilty  conscience 

Is  a  black  register  wherein  is  writ 


1 68  The  yacohean  Poets.  [Ch.  Vlll. 

All  our  good  deeds  and  bad,  a  perspective 

That  shows  us  hell  !  that  we  can  not  be  suffer'd 

To  do  good  when  we  have  a  mind  to  it  ! 

This  is  manly  sorrow  ; 

These  tears,  I  am  very  certain,  never  grew 

In  my  mother's  milk  :  my  estate  is  sunk 

Below  the  degree  of  fear  :  where  were 

These  penitent  fountains  while  she  was  living  ? 

O,  they  were  frozen  up  !     Here  is  a  sight 

As  direful  to  my  soul  as  is  the  sword 

Unto  a  wretch  hath  slain  his  father.     Come, 

I'll  bear  thee  hence, 

And  execute  thy  last  will ;  that's  deliver 

Thy  body  to  the  reverent  dispose 

Of  some  good  women  ;  that  the  cruel  tyrant 

Shall  not  deny  me.     Then  I'll  post  to  Milan, 

Where  somewhat  I  will  speedily  enact 

Worth  my  dejection. 

The  characterization  of  the  Duchess,  with  her  inde- 
pendence, her  integrity, and  her  noble  and  yet  sprightly 
dignity,  gradually  gaining  refinement  as  the  joy  of  life  is 
crushed  out  of  her,  is  one  calculated  to  inspire  pity  to 
a  degree  very  rare  indeed  in  any  tragical  poetry.  The 
figure  of  Antonio,  the  subject  whom  she  secretly  raises 
to  a  morganatic  alliance  with  her,  is  simply  and  whole- 
somely drawn.  All  is  original,  all  touching  and  moving, 
while  the  spirit  of  beauty,  that  rare  and  intangible 
element,  throws  its  charm  like  a  tinge  of  rose-colour  over 
all  that  might  otherwise  seem  to  a  modern  reader  harsh 
or  crude. 

On  one  point,  however,  with  great  difiidence,  the 
present  writer  must  confess  that  he  cannot  agree  with 
those  great  authorities,  Lamb  and  Mr.  Swinburne,  who 
have  asserted,  in  their  admiration  for  Webster,  that  he 


Ch.  VIII. j  Webster.  1 69 

^as  always  skilful  in  the  introduction  of  horror.  In  his 
own  mind,  as  a  poet,  Webster  doubtless  was  aware  of  the 
procession  of  a  majestic  and  solemn  spectacle,  but  when 
he  endeavours  to  present  that  conception  on  the  boards 
of  the  theatre,  his  ''terrors  want  dignity,  his  affright- 
ments  want  decorum."  The  horrible  dumb  shows  of 
The  Duchess  of  Malfy — the  strangled  children,  the 
chorus  of  maniacs,  the  murder  of  Cariola,  as  she  bites 
and  scratches,  the  scuffling  and  stabbing  in  the  fifth  act, 
are,  it  appears  to  me — with  all  deference  to  the  eminent 
critics,  who  have  applauded  them — blots  on  what  is  not- 
withstanding a  truly  noble  poem,  and  what,  with  more 
reserve  in  this  respect,  would  have  been  one  of  the  first 
tragedies  of  the  world. 

Similar  characteristics  present  themselves  to  us  in  The 
White  Devil^  but  in  a  much  rougher  form.  The 
sketchiness  of  this  play,  which  is  not  divided  into  acts 
and  scenes,  and  progresses  with  unaccountable  gaps  in 
the  story,  and  perfunctory  makeshifts  of  dumb  show, 
has  been  the  .wonder  of  critics.  But  Webster  was 
particularly  interested  in  his  own  work  as  a  romantic 
rather  than  a  theatrical  poet,  and  it  must  be  remembered 
that  after  a  long  apprenticeship  in  collaboration.  The 
White  Devil  was  his  first  independent  play.  It  reads  as 
though  the  writer  had  put  in  only  what  interested  him, 
and  had  left  the  rest  for  a  coadjutor,  who  did  not  happen 
to  present  himself,  to  fill  up.  The  central  figure  of 
Vittoria,  the  subtle,  masterful,  and  exquisite  she-devil,  is 
filled  up  very  minutely  and  vividly  in  the  otherwise 
hastily  painted  canvas ;  and  in  the  trial-scene,  which  is 
perhaps  the  most  perfectly  sustained  which  Webster  has 


I/O  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cir.  Viii. 

left  us,  we  are  so  much  captivated  by  the  beauty  and 
ingenuity  of  the  murderess  that,  as  Lamb  says  in  a 
famous  passage,  we  are  ready  to  expect  that  ''  all  the 
court  will  rise  and  make  proffer  to  defend  her  in  spite  of 
the  utmost  conviction  of  her  guilt."  The  fascination  of 
Vittoria,  like  an  exquisite  poisonous  perfume,  pervades 
the  play,  and  Brachiano  strikes  a  note,  which  is  the 
central  one  of  the  romance,  when  he  says  to  her — 

Thou  hast  led  me  like  a  heathen  sacrifice, 
With  music  and  with  fatal  yokes  of  flowers, 
To  my  eternal  niin. 

The  White  Devil  is  not  less  full  than  the  Duchess  of 
Malfy  of  short  Hues  and  phrases  full  of  a  surprising 
melody.  In  the  fabrication  of  these  jewels,  Webster  is 
surpassed  only  by  Shakespeare. 

If,  as  is  now  supposed,  the  composition  oi  Appius  and 
Virginia  followed  closely  upon  that  of  The  White  Devil, 
it  is  plain  that  the  reception  of  the  latter  play  must  have 
'\  drawn  Webster's  attention  to  the  necessity  of  paying 
more  attention  to  theatrical  requirements.  While  the 
romantic  and  literary  glow  of  language  is  severely 
restrained,  there  is  here  a  very  noticeable  advance  in 
every  species  of  dramatic  propriety,  and  Appiiis  and 
Virginia  is  by  far  the  best  constructed  of  Webster's  plays. 
The  Jacobean  dramatists  were  constantly  attempting  t67 
compose  Roman  tragedies,  in  which  they  vaguely  saw 
the  possibility  of  reaching  the  classic  perfection  of  form 
at  which  they  aimed  in  their  less  agitated  moments. 
Ben  Jonson's  plays  of  this  class  have  been  already  men- 
tioned, and  these,  to  his  own  contemporaries,  seemed  to 
be  by  far  the  most  coherent  and  satisfactor3^     Posterity, 


Ch.  VIIL]  Webster.  171 

however,  has  placed  Julius  Ccesar  high  above  Sejanus  and 
Catiline,  and  without  seeking  to  put  Webster  by  the 
side  of  Shakespeare,  his  Roman  tragedy  must  be  admitted 
to  be  more  graceful,  pathetic,  and  vigorous  than  Jonson's. 
A  speech  of  Virginius  in  the  fourth  act  will  give  an 
idea  of  the  high  Roman  tone  of  the  play — 

Have  I,  in  all  this  populous  assembly 

Of  soldiers  that  have  proved  Virginius'  valour, 

One  friend  ?     Let  him  come  thrill  his  partizan 

Against  this  breast,  that  thro'  a  large  wide  wound 

My  mighty  soul  might  rush  out  of  this  prison, 

To  fly  more  freely  to  yon  crystal  palace, 

Where  honour  sits  enthronized.     What,  no  friend? 

Can  this  great  multitude,  then,  yield  an  enemy 

That  hates  my  life  ?     Here  let  him  seize  it  freely. 

What,  no  man  strike  ?  am  I  so  well  belov'd  ? — 

Minertius,  then  to  thee  ;  if  in  this  camp 

There  lives  one  man  so  just  to  punish  sin, 

So  charitable  to  redeem  from  torments 

A  ready  soldier,  at  his  worthy  hand 

I  beg  a  death. 

The  scenes  are  largely  set,  the  characters,  especially 
those  of  Virginius  and  of  Appius,  justly  designed  and 
well  contrasted,  while  the  stiffness  of  Roman  manners, 
as  seen  thiough  a  Jacobean  medium,  is  not  in  this  case 
sufficient  to  destroy  the  suppleness  of  the  movement  nor 
the  pathos  of  the  situation.  Appius  and  Virgi?iia,  as  a 
poem,  will  never  possess  the  attractiveness  of  the  two 
great  Italian  romances,  but  it  is  the  best-executed  of 
Webster's  dramas. 

If  the  playwright  took  a  step  forwards  in  his  Roman 
play,  he  took  several  backwards  in  his  incoherent  tragi- 
comedy  of   The  JDeviPs   Laiv-Case.      Here   no   charm 


172  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  viil, 

attaches  to  the  characters  3  the  plot  moves  around  no 
central  interest ;  the  structure  of  the  piece,  from  a  stage 
point  of  view,  is  utterly  at  fault.  None  the  less,  this 
strange  play  will  always  have  its  readers,  for  Webster's 
literary  faculty  is  nowhere  exhibited  to  greater  perfection, 
and  the  poetry  of  the  text  abounds  in  verbal  felicities. 
Unfortunately,  the  special  attention  of  the  poet  seems 
to  have  been  concentrated  on  the  unravelling  of  a  most 
fantastic  skein  of  legal  intrigues.  In  listening  to  the 
quibbles  and  the  serpentining  subtleties  of  Ariosto  and 
Crispiano  the  reader  loses  not  merely  his  interest,  but 
his  intelligence ;  he  is  not  amused,  but  merely  bewildered. 
Leonora,  who,  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  her  lover,  charges 
her  own  son  with  illegitimacy,  is  a  being  outside  the  pale 
of  sympathy. 

The  abrupt  withdrawal  of  Webster  from  writing  for 
the  stage— a  step  which  he  seems  to  have  taken  when 
he  was  little  over  thirty  years  of  age — points  to  a  sense 
of  want  of  harmony  between  his  genius  and  the  theatre. 
In  fact,  none  of  the  leading  dramatists  of  our  great 
period  seems  to  have  so  little  native  instinct  for 
stage-craft  as  Webster,  and  it  is  natural  to  suppose  that 
in  another  age,  and  in  other  conditions,  he  would  have 
directed  his  noble  gifts  of  romantic  poetry  to  other 
provinces  of  the  art.  If  it  were  not  absolutely  certain 
that  he  flourished  between  1602  and  16 12,  we  should 
be  inclined  to  place  the  period  of  his  activity  at  least 
ten  years  earlier.  Although  in  fact  an  exact  contemporary 
of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  evidently  much  Shake- 
speare's junior,  a  place  between  Marlowe  and  those 
dramatists  seems  appropriate  to  him,  so  primitive  is  his 


Ch.  VIII.]  Webster— Day.  173 

theatrical  art,  so  ingenuous  and  inexperienced  his  notion 
of  the  stage.  That  he  preferred  the  more  stilted  and 
buskined  utterances  of  drama  to  grace  and  suppleness  may 
be  gathered  from  Webster's  own  critical  distinctions  ;  he 
has  no  words  of  admiration  too  high  for  Chapman  and 
Jonson  ;  Shakespeare  he  commends,  with  a  touch  of 
patronage,  on  a  level  with  Dekker  and  Heywood,  for  his 
"  right  happy  and  copious  industry,"  placing  the  romantic 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  above  him.  This  points  to  a 
somewhat  academic  temper  of  mind,  and  to  a  tendency 
to  look  rather  at  the  splendid  raiment  of  drama  than  at 
the  proficiency  and  variety  of  those  who  wear  it.  Webster 
is  an  impressive  rather  than  a  dexterous  playwright ;  but 
as  a  romantic  poet  of  passion  he  takes  a  position  in  the 
very  first  rank  of  his  contemporaries. 

Of  John  Day's  dramatic  works  but  a  small  frag- 
ment has  survived,  and  it  is  probable  that  he  appears 
to  us  in  a  very  different  light  from  that  in  which  his 
contemporaries  regarded  him.  He  is  now  quoted  as  the 
type  and  expositor  of  a  playful  and  delicate  side  of 
Jacobean  drama,  hardly  existing  elsewhere,  a  survival  or 
revival  of  the  school  of  florid  conceit  and  affected 
pastoral  wit.  Arcadian  and  at  the  same  time  mundane. 
But  this  view  of  him  is  largely  founded  upon  the  best 
known  of  all  his  productions,  the  masque  entitled  The 
Parliament  of  Bees,  and,  although  so  convenient  for 
practical  critical  purposes  as  to  be  not  worth  disturbing, 
is  probably  a  quite  accidental  and  non-essential  one. 
Scarcely  anything  is  known  of  Day's  life,  except  that  he 
was  a  student  of  Gonville  and  Caius  College,  Cambridge, 
and   that   as  early  as    1598   he  was  writing    plays   for 


174  ^^^^  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  Vlli. 

Henslowe.  Unless  his  Spanish  Moors  Tragedy  of  1600 
survives  as  Lusfs  Dominion^  of  Day's  first  twenty  recorded 
plays  all  are  lost,  except  The  Blind  Beggar  of  Bethnal 
Green,  not  published  till  1659,  but  written  with  Chettle 
in  1600.  This  is  not  an  interesting  performance,  and 
suggests  that  we  need  not  deeply  regret  the  destruction 
of  the  prentice  works  of  Day. 

In  1605  was  acted,  and  in  the  next  year  published, 
The  Isle  of  Gulls,  a  sort  of  Arcadian  satire  mainly  in 
prose,  "  a  little  spring  or  rivulet  drawn  from  the  full 
stream  "  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  romance.  It  is  curiously 
Euphuistic,  recalling  the  taste  of  the  end  of  Elizabeth's 
reign,  very  lively  in  the  mechanism  of  its  plot,  and  the 
various  tricks  contrived  upon  its  personages.  Mr.  Fleay 
has  ingeniously  argued  that  The  Isle  of  Gulls  was  an 
attack  on  James  I.,  the  duke  and  duchess  being  meant 
for  the  king  and  queen.  Law  Tricks,  a  comedy  printed 
in  1608,  was  probably  some  two  years  earHer  acted.  Its 
fault  is  a  certain  insipidity  ;  its  merit  sweetness  of  ver- 
sification and  delicacy  of  fancy.  The  Travels  of  the 
Th-ee  English  Brothers,  in  which  Rowley  and  Wilkins 
collaborated  with  Day,  belongs  to  1607.  Humour  out 
of  Breath,  1608,  is  mainly,  if  not  entirely,  Day's  work. 
This  is,  as  Mr.  BuUen  has  noted,  his  most  characteristic 
play.  It  is  a  short  comedy,  in  prose,  and  verse,  that  is 
often  rhymed  ;  the  spirit  and  tone  of  it  are  plainly  copied 
from  those  of  Shakespeare's  romantic  comedies.  With 
this  play  Day's  connection  with  the  theatre  seems  to 
have  ceased.  In  1619  Jonson  talked  about  him  to 
Drummond,  and  said  in  his  haste  that  Day  was  ^'a 
rogue"  and  "a  base  fellow."     It  is  probable  that  his 


CH.  VIII.]  Day,  175 

death  occurred  in  1640,  and  we  are  left  to  speculate 
in  vain  regarding  the  incidents  of  a  life  of  perhaps 
seventy  years,  with  its  one  decade  of  feverish  professional 
activity. 

In  1641,  however,  there  was  posthumously  issued  the 
work  on  which  the  immortality  of  Day  is  supported,  his 
satirical  masque  of  The  Parliametit  of  Bees.  Mr.  Fleay 
has  proved  that  it  was  touched  up  for  the  press  by  Day 
himself  just  before  he  died  \  but  to  think  of  this  as  a 
work  of  the  extreme  old  age  of  Day  is  impossible.  A 
vague  tradition  points  to  1607  as  the  year  of  its  composi- 
tion, and  no  date  could  seem  more  probable  for  a  poem 
instinct  with  juvenile  elasticity  and  buoyancy.  It  is  a 
drama  in  rhymed  ten-syllable  and  eight-syllable  verse, 
all  the  characters  in  which  are  bees,  and  converse,  as 
Lamb  says,  *'in  words  which  bees  would  talk  with,  could 
they  talk  ;  the  very  air  seems  replete  with  humming  and 
buzzing  melodies,  while  we  read  them." 

This  passage  will  give  an  idea  of  the  movement  of  the 
dialogue — 

Prorex.  And  whither  must  these  flies  be  sent  ? 

Oberou.  To  everlasting  banishment. 

Underneath  two  hanging  rocks, 

Where  babbling  Echo  sits  and  mocks 

Poor  travellers,  there  lies  a  grove 

With  whom  the  sun's  so  out  of  love 

He  never  smiles  on't,— pale  Despair 

Calls  it  his  monarchal  chair. 

Fruit,  half-ripe,  hangs  rivell'd  and  shrunk 

On  broken  arms  torn  from  the  trunk  : 

The  moorish  pools  stand  empty,  left 

By  water,  stolen  by  cunning  theft, 

To  hollow  banks,  driven  out  by  snakes, 

Adders  and  newts,  that  man  these  lakes : 


176  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  viii. 

The  mossy  weeds  half  swelter'd,  serv'd 
As  beds  for  vermin,  hunger-starv'd  : 
y  The  woods  are  yew-trees,  rent  and  broke 

'  't  U-  -^y  whirlwinds  ;  here  and  there  an  oak 

• '         '  Half  cleft  with  thunder  ;— to  this  grove 

We  banish  them.     All.  Some  mercy,  Jove  ! 
/«•  Obcron.  You  should  have  cried  so  in  your  youth, 

'W  When  Chronos  and  his  daughter  Truth 

Sojourn'd  amongst  you,  when  you  spent 
Whole  years  in  riotous  merriment, 
Thrusting  poor  bees  out  of  their  hives, 
Seizing  both  honey,  wax  and  lives. 

This  apian  pastoral  is  one  of  the  most  curious  and 
original  productions  of  the  age. 

Robert  Daborne  was  a  playwright  of  little  intrinsic 
merit,  if  we  may  judge  by  his  surviving  plays.  But  he 
possesses  a  curious  interest  for  us,  as  the  author  of  a 
correspondence  with  Henslowe  which  gives  ''a  unique 
narration  of  the  life  of  a  third-rate  dramatist  in  the  pay 
of  an  extortionate  stage-manager  of  the  time  of  James  I." 
These  letters  are  nearly  thirty  in  number,  and  are  dated 
from  April  17,  16 13,  to  August  i,  1614.  In  the  course 
of  them  we  read  of  Cyril  Tourneur,  Field,  and  Massinger 
as  companions  in  Daborne's  misfortunes,  and  chained  to 
the  same  theatrical  oar.  Daborne  left  the  stage  in  16 14, 
took  holy  orders,  and  proceeded  to  Waterford,  whence  he 
issued  a  sermon  in  161 8.  His  tragedy  called  A  Christian 
turned  Turk,  16 12,  is  a  wild  and  inchoate  piece  of  melo- 
drama, founded  on  a  recent  case  of  Levantine  piracy  ;  it 
contains  some  vigorous  passages.  He  is  thought  to  have 
helped  Fletcher  with  The  Honest  Man's  Fortune. 

Charles  Lamb  drew  attention  to  a  long  and  very  spirited 
scene  in  a  romantic  comedy,  called  T/ie  Hog  hath  Lost 


Ch.  VIII.]  Tovikls.  177 

his  Pearly  published  in  16 14.  This  was  written  by 
Robert  Tailor,  of  whom  absolutely  nothing  else  has  been 
preserved.  Tailor's  versification  is  so  easy  and  even, 
and  the  success  of  his  play  is  so  clearly  recorded,  as  to 
create  surprise  at  his  having,  so  far  as  we  know,  written 
for  the  stage  on  no  other  occasion.  The  central  incident 
of  this  remarkably  fine  piece  of  work  was  the  crime  and 
the  remorse  of  a  certain  Albert,  who  robs  his  friend 
Carracus  of  his  bride  Maria,  the  pearl  which  Carracus 
has  stolen  from  her  father,  the  old  Lord  Wealthy. 
Nothing  whatever  is  known  about  Tailor,  who  wrote  his 
play  to  be  acted  *'by  certain  London  prentices."  It  is 
particularly  rich  in  curious  theatrical  allusions. 

John  Tomkis,  or  Tomkins^  was  a  University  playwright, 
a  scholar  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  Two  plays  of 
his,  neither  of  which  is  a  work  of  genius,  have  attracted 
a  great  deal  of  discussion,  and  were  famous  when  some 
of  the  masterpieces  of  Jacobean  drama  were  still  unknown. 
One  of  these  is  Lingua,  long  attributed  to  Anthony  Brewer. 
The  scene  is  laid  in  Microcosmus,  in  a  grove,  and  the  plot 
didactically  sets  forth  the  combat  of  the  tongue  and  the 
five  senses  for  superiority.  Interest  was  lent  to  Lingua 
by  the  tradition  that  Oliver  Cromwell  played  in  it  in  the 
part  of  Tactus,  and  had  his  poHtical  ambition  first  en- 
flamed  by  it.  This  play  was  probably  written  soon  after 
the  accession  of  James  I.,  though  not  published  till  1607. 
It  was  very  frequently  reprinted  in  the  course  of  the  cen- 
tury. Tomkis'  other  drama,  oddly  enough,  has  also  been 
the  centre  of  a  tissue  of  tradition.  Alhwnazar^  which  was 
acted  by  the  gentlemen  of  Trinity  before  the  king  in 
I  615,  and  published  the  same  year,  attracted  the  notice 

N 


1/8  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cii.  viii. 

of  Dryden,  who  caused  it  to  be  revived,  and  wrote  a 
prologue  for  it  in  1668.  In  his  enthusiasm  for  his  dis- 
covery, Dryden  charged  Ben  Jonson  with  having  chosen 
Albumazar  as  the  model  of  his  own  great  comedy  of  The 
Alchymist.  This  mistake  was  constantly  repeated,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  Jonson's  play  preceded  that  of  Tomkis 
by  five  years. 

Certain  academic  plays  of  the  close  of  the  reign, 
poems  in  dramatic  form,  which  were  never  intended  for 
the  public  boards,  may  here  be  mentioned.  Among 
them  the  beautiful  anonymous  tragedy  of  Nero,  published 
as  "newly  written"  in  1624,  takes  easily  the  foremost 
place.  No  one  has  been  able  to  form  a  reasonable  con- 
jecture as  to  the  name  of  the  writer,  and  it  is  probable 
that  he  was  young,  and  never  attempted  to  repeat  his 
experiment.  Nero  is,  indeed,  what  a  contemporary  critic 
called  it,  an  "indifferent"  acting-play,  but  is  written  in 
unusually  good  verse,  and  contains  scattered  passages 
which  deserve  no  less  enthusiastic  epithet  than  "ex- 
quisite." 

Thus,  in  the  third  act,  does  Nero  give  expression  to 
the  fatuous  vanity  of  the  flattered  amateur — 

They  tell  of  Orpheus,  when  he  took  his  lute 

And  moved  the  noble  ivory  -with  his  touch, 

Hebrus  stood  still,  Pangoeus  bowed  his  head, 

Ossa  then  first  shook  off  his  snow,  and  came 

To  listen  to  the  movings  of  his  song  ; 

The  gentle  poplar  took  the  bay  along, 

And  call'd  the  pine  down  from  the  mountain-seat ; 

The  virgin-bay,  altho'  the  arts  she  hates 

Of  the  Delphic  god,  was  with  his  voice  o'ercome  ; 

He  his  twice-lost  Eurydice  bewails 

And  Proserpine's  vain  gifts,  and  makes  the  shores 


Cir.  VIIL]  **  Nero  ''—Goffe,  179 

And  hollow  caves  of  forests  now  untree'd, 

Bear  his  griefs  company,  and  all  things  teacheth 

Ilis  lost  love's  name  ;  then  water,  air,  and  ground 

*'  Eurydice,  Eurydice  !  "  resound. 

These  are  bold  tales  of  which  the  Greeks  have  store  ; 

But  if  he  could  from  Hell  once  more  return, 

And  would  compare  his  hand  and  voice  with  mine, 

Aye,  tho'  himself  were  judge,  he  then  would  see 

How  much  the  Latin  stains  the  Thracian  lyre. 

I  oft  have  walked  by  Tiber's  flow'ry  banks 

And  heard  the  swan  sing  her  own  epitaph  ; 

When  she  heard  me,  she  held  her  peace  and  died. 

Thomas  Goffe,  who  was  born  about  1592,  and 
educated  at  Christchurch,  Oxford,  was  a  clergyman 
during  the  last  four  years  of  his  life,  and  died  in  July, 
1627,  hen-pecked  to  death  by  a  wife  "who  was  as  great 
a  plague  to  him  as  it  was  well  possible  for  a  shrew  to  be." 
This  gentle  cleric  wrote,  before  he  left  Oxford  in  1623, 
four  plays — three  tragedies  and  a  tragi-comedy  of  The 
Careless  Shepherdess — all  of  which  were  posthumously 
published.  The  tragedies,  which  enjoyed  a  certain 
popularity,  were  absurdly  bombastic  and  sanguinary, 
and  recalled  the  earliest  works  of  such  primitives  as 
Marlowe  and  Kyd.  The  learned  Dr.  Barton  Holiday, 
just  before  he  went  away  to  Spain  with  Gondomar  in 
1 6 18,  produced  a  play  called  Techno gamia ;  or^  The 
Marriage  of  the  Arts,  which  was  acted  by  the  students 
in  Christchurch  Hall  on  the  13th  of  February,  and  four 
years  later  at  Woodstock  before  the  king,  who  was 
exceedingly  fatigued  by  it.  Thomas  May,  who  was 
born  in  1595,  and  who  became  a  very  distinguished  prose- 
writer  and  translator  in  the  next  reign  and  during  the 
Commonwealth,  wrote  a  popular  academic  comedy,  The 


i8o  The  yacohean  Poets.  [Ch.  VIII. 

Heir^  and  three  tragedies,  before  the  close  of  James  I.'s 
life.  He  was  an  active  member  of  the  Parliamentarian 
party,  and  died  in  bed,  from  having  fastened  his  night- 
cap too  tightly  under  his  chin,  in  1650.  He  was  one  of 
those  whose  bodies,  after  having  been  buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  were  taken  up  at  the  Restoration  and 
flung  into  a  pit  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Margaret's  ;  his 
monument  being,  at  the  same  time,  taken  down  from 
the  wall  of  Poets'  Corner. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WITHER — QUARLES— LORD  BROOKE. 

A  VERY  prominent  figure  among  the  Jacobean  poets,  yet 
one  with  which  it  is  very  difficult  to  deal,  is  that  of  George 
Wither.  The  time  has  passed  when  this  voluminous 
writer  can  be  treated  by  any  competent  critic  with  the 
contempt  of  the  age  of  Anne.  The  scorn  of  Pope  still 
clings,  however,  to  the  "wretched  Withers,"  whose  name 
he  misspelt,  and  of  whose  works  he  had  probably  seen 
nothing  but  the  satires.  Nor  would  it  be  safe,  on  the 
score  of  exquisite  beauties  discoverable  in  the  early  lyrics 
of  Wither,  to  overlook  the  radical  faults  of  his  style.  One 
or  two  generous  appreciators  of  Jacobean  verse  have 
done  this,  and  have  claimed  for  Wither  a  very  high  place 
in  EngUsh  poetry.  But  proportion,  judgment,  taste 
must  count  for  something,  and  in  these  qualities  this 
lyrist  was  deplorably  deficient.  The  careful  student,  not 
of  excerpts  made  by  loving  and  partial  hands,  but  of  the 
bulk  of  his  published  writings,  will  be  inclined  to  hesitate 
before  he  admits  that  Wither  was  a  great  poet.  He  will 
rather  call  him  a  very  curious  and  perhaps  unique  instance 
of  a  tiresome  and  verbose  scribbler,  to  whom  in  his  youth 


1 82  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  ix. 

there  came  unconsidered  flashes  of  most  genuine  and 
exquisite  poetry. 

George  Wither  was  born  at  Brantworth,  in  Hampshire, 
on  the  nth  of  June,  1588.  His  parents  were  in  inde- 
pendent and  even  affluent  circumstances ;  his  earliest 
education  was  found  in  the  neighbouring  village  school 
of  Colemore,  and  he  was  still  but  a  boy  when  he  was 
sent  to  Magdalen  College,  Oxford.  His  college  career 
was  abruptly  terminated  after  two  years,  when  he  returned 
to  "  the  beechy  shadows  of  Brantworth,"  and,  according 
to  his  own  possibly  hyperbolic  statement, ''  to  the  plough." 
The  general  supposition  has  been,  caused  perhaps  by 
some  laxity  in  Anthony  \  Wood's  information,  that  he 
went  up  to  London  of  his  own  accord  in  1605,  to  seek 
his  fortune  there,  and  entered  himself  of  Lincoln's  Inn. 
The  date  is  probably  much  too  early,  for  he  was  then 
only  seventeen  years  of  age,  and  we  know  that  he  spent  a 
weary  time  in  Hampshire.  At  all  events,  it  is  not  until 
i6t2  that  we  hear  of  him  as  a  poet,  and  this  was  probably 
about  the  date  of  his  appearance  in  London.  In  that 
year  he  published,  on  the  theme  which  excited  universal 
emotion  at  the  moment,  a  little  volume  of  Prince  Heiiry^s 
Obsequies^  a  series  of  nearly  fifty  sonnets,  smoothly  and 
volubly  indited,  and  containing  occasional  phrases  of 
some  beauty. 

It  is  understood  that  this  little  volume,  and  a  still  smaller 
quarto  of  Epithalaviia  which  immediately  followed  it, 
introduced  Wither  to  the  company  of  young  poets  who 
at  this  time  began  to  collect  in  the  courts  of  law.  In 
particular,  it  is  certain  that  he  gained  the  friendship  of 
Browne  and  of  Christopher  Brooke.     In  16 13,  however, 


Ch.  IX.]  Wither.  183 

Wither  suddenly  became  prominent  by  the  publication 
of  a  volume  of  satires  entitled  Abuses  Stript  and  Whipty 
of  which  four  editions  were  rapidly  exhausted.  The 
scandal  caused  by  this  book  was  so  great  that  the  poet 
was  thrown  into  the  Marshalsea  prison,  where,  as  he  tells 
us,  he  "  was  shut  up  from  the  society  of  mankind,  and, 
as  one  unworthy  the  compassion  vouchsafed  to  thieves 
and  murderers,  was  neither  permitted  the  use  of  my  pen, 
the  access  or  sight  of  acquaintance,  the  allowances 
usually  afforded  other  close  prisoners,  nor  means  to  send 
for  necessaries.  ...  I  was  for  many  days  compelled  to 
feed  on  nothing  but  the  coarsest  bread,  and  sometimes 
locked  up  four  and  twenty  hours  together  without  so 
much  as  a  drop  of  water  to  cool  my  tongue."  This 
severity  must  have  been  presently  relaxed,  for  Wither 
wrote  much  in  prison ;  but  he  was  not  suffered  to  leave 
the  Marshalsea  until  many  months  had  passed. 

It  is  very  difficult,  with  the  text  of  Abuses  Stript  and 
Whipt  before  us,  to  understand  why  it  should  have  caused 
such  vehement  official  resentment.  The  book  is  really  a 
collection  of  essays  on  ethical  subjects,  running  to  about 
ten  thousand  verses,  all  in  the  heroic  couplet.  The  so- 
called  ''  satires "  deal  with  such  themes  as  *'  Love," 
"  Presumption,"  "  Weakness,"  and  "  Vanity."  There  are 
more  odd  instances  of  suppression,  of  course,  than  this, 
that  of  Drayton's  Harmony  of  the  Churchy  being  the 
most  unaccountable  of  all.  Wither's  satire,  however,  is 
so  anodyne  and  so  impersonal,  so  devoid  of  anything 
which  could,  apparently,  be  taken  as  a  home-thrust  by 
any  individual,  that  the  scandal  caused  by  Abuses  Stript 
and   Whipt  is  an  enigma  of  literary  history.     Here  are 


184  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Cir.  ix. 

none  of  those  direct  portraits  which  passed  ahuost  un- 
challenged in  the  satires  of  Marston  and  Donne.  There 
is,  notwithstanding,  a  passage  in  the  ninth  satire  of  the 
first  book  which  attacks  the  prelates  of  the  English 
Church  very  sharply,  and  the  imprudence  of  this  out- 
burst seems  to  have  struck  the  poet  himself,  for  he 
proceeds  to  a  direct  flattery  of  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury.  In  the  absence  of  any  other  light,  we  may 
perhaps  conjecture  that  the  chapter  on  ''Ambition" 
earned  our  young  poet  his  cell  in  the  Marshalsea. 

These  Satires  are  readable,  and  have  none  of  the 
Persius-like  obscurity  and  roughness  of  earlier  English 
satire.  The  author,  after  some  obliging  traits  of  auto- 
biography, essays  to  deal  with  the  whole  subject  of  the 
decay  of  Man's  moral  nature.  We  find  lucid  con- 
structions and  smooth  verse  throughout,  and  wherever 
a  picture  of  manners  is  introduced,  it  is  given  with  a 
Dutch  precision  and  picturesqueness.  Already,  in  this 
lively  production  of  his  twenty-fifth  year,  we  are  conscious 
of  Wither's  radical  faults,  his  moral  garrulity,  his  tedious 
length.  It  seems  certain  that  the  fine  lyrical  vein  in  his 
genius  very  soon  dried  up.  In  the  opening  of  the 
Abuses  Stript  and  W/iiJ>t,  he  speaks  of  having  already 
indited  ''Aretophil's  compliment,  with  many  doleful 
sonnets."  This  collection,  then,  may  be  consigned  to 
his  very  early  youth,  although,  so  far  as  we  know,  it  did 
not  riiake  its  public  appearance  until  it  was  printed,  as 
Fair  Virtue,  The  Mist?'ess  of  Phi  tan  te,  in  1622.  It  may 
be  safely  dated  ten  years  earlier. 

Leaving  this  collection  for  awhile,  we  come  to  the 
books  which  Wither  wrote  in  prison.     It  is  not  needful 


Ch.  IX.]  Wither.  185 

to  dwell  on  his  contributions^  in  16 14,  to  T/ie  Shepherd's 
Pipe  of  Browne,  Christopher  Brooke  and  Davies  of 
Hereford;  but  in  16 15  appeared  two  exquisite  volumes, 
Fidelia  and  The  Shepherd's  Hunting.  The  former  was 
privately  printed,  and  of  this  edition  but  one  copy  is 
known  to  survive;  the  latter  is  not  a  common  book. 
Fidelia  is  an  "  elegiacal  epistle,"  in  heroic  couplet, 
addressed  by  a  woman  to  her  inconstant  friend;  it  is 
a  fragment  of  some  huge  poem  probably  carried  no 
further.  It  possesses  a  great  delicacy  of  passion,  and 
a  versification  curiously  and  irresistibly  suggestive  of 
that  of  Dryden  ;  Fidelia  is  by  far  the  most  attractive  of 
the  non-lyrical  works  of  Wither. 

In  The  Shepherd's  Hunting  all  is  lyrical  in  spirit,  if  not 
in  form.  It  is  divided  into  eclogues,  in  which  the  poet 
somewhat  dimly  recounts  his  woes  and  their  alleviations, 
in  exquisite  verse  of  varied  measures.  He  is  not  even 
gloomy  long,  and  hastens  to  assure  us  that — 

though  that  all  the  world's  delight  forsake  me, 
I  have  a  Muse,  and  she  shall  music  make  me  ; 
"Whose  very  notes,  in  spite  of  closest  cages, 
Shall  give  content  to  me  and  after  ages. 

The  fourth  eclogue  is  the  sweetest  of  all.  Here,  as  has 
been  said,  "  the  caged  bird  begins  to  sing  like  a  lark  at 
Heaven's  gate,"  and  bids  its  free  companions  to  be  of 
good  cheer. 

As  the  sun  doth  oft  exhale 

Vapours  from  each  rotten  vale, 

Poesy  so  sometimes  drains 

Gross  conceits  from  muddy  brains, — 

Mists  of  envy,  fogs  of  spite, 

'Twixt  man's  judgments  and  her  light ; 


1 86  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  ix. 

But  so  much  her  power  may  do, 
That  she  can  dissolve  them  too. 
If  thy  verse  do  bravely  tower, 
As  she  makes  wing,  she  gets  power  ; 
Yet  the  higher  she  doth  soar. 
She's  affronted  still  the  more  ; 
Till  she  to  the  highest  hath  past. 
Then  she  rests  with  Fame  at  last. 
Let  nought  therefore  thee  affright, 
But  make  forward  in  thy  flight ; 
For  if  I  could  match  thy  rhyme, 
To  the  very  stars  I'd  climb. 
There  begin  anew,  and  fly 
Till  I  reached  eternity. 

In  all  the  days  of  James  I.,  no  more  unaffected 
melodies,  no  brighter  or  more  aerial  notes,  were  poured 
forth  by  any  poet  than  are  contained  in  this  delicious 
little  volume  of  The  She^herd^s  Huntmg. 

We  may  now  come  to  the  Mistress  of  Philarete.  This, 
as  it  was  finally  published,  is  a  much  more  bulky  affair. 
The  form  is  decidedly  unfortunate ;  the  poem  consists  of 
lyrics,  many  of  them  of  a  somewhat  miscellaneous 
character,  set  in  a  framework  of  recitative  heroic  couplets. 
The  opening  of  The  Mistress  of  Philaretey  with  its 
glowing  description  of  the  poet's  Hampshire  home,  and 
in  particular  of  Alresford  Pool,  has  been  greatly  praised, 
but  can  scarcely  be  praised  too  highly.  Where  the 
contents  of  this  volume  are  successful,  it  is  in  their  use 
of  the  dancing  measure,  the  true  singing  note.  No- 
where is  the  octosyllabic  used  with  more  rapturous 
felicity  than  occasionally  here.  Often  the  poet  rings  out 
a  pure  sonorous  cadence  ;  still  more  often  he  is  rapid, 
lucid,  easy,  and  modern.  If  in  Fidelia  we  were  re- 
minded  of  Dryden,  the   double   rhymes   and   reckless 


Ch.  IX.]  Wither.  187 

phrases    in    Philarete    makes    us    think    of    EUzabeth 
Browning. 

Say,  you  purchase,  with  your  pelf, 

Some  respect,  where  you  importune  ! 
Those  may  love  me,  for  myself, 
That  regard  you  for  your  fortune. 
Rich,  or  born  of  high  degree, 
Fools,  as  well  as  you,  may  be  ! 
But  that  peace  in  which  I  live, 
No  descent  nor  wealth  can  give. 

If  you  boast  that  you  may  gain 

The  respect  of  high-born  beauties, 
Know,  I  never  wooed  in  vain, 
Nor  preferred  scorned  duties  ; 
She  I  love  hath  all  delight. 
Rosy  red  with  lily  white  ; 
And,  whoe'er  your  mistress  be. 
Flesh  and  blood  as  good  as  she. 

Wither's  diction  is  curiously  transitional  here,  and 
while  with  one  hand  he  stretches  up  to  Greene  and 
Lodge,  with  the  other  he  feels  downwards  towards  the 
lyrists  of  the  Restoration. 

But  it  would  be  utterly  uncritical  to  say  this  and  this 

only.      The  purple   passages  are   interwoven   with  the 

commonest   sacking.     Even  in  his  own  day,  and  thus 

early,  it  had  been  perceived  that  he  possessed  no  powers 

of  self-criticism.     He  is  very  indignant  with  those  who 

censure  the  diffuseness,  the  length,  the  didactic  dulness 

of  his  poems ;  he  calls  them  "  fools,"  and  cries — 

Let  them  know  .  .  . 
I  make  to  please  myself,  and  not  for  them  ! 

It  is  a  misfortune  that  he  judged  himself  so  ill,  for  the 
'^  fools "  were  perfectly  right,  and  all  these  faults  were 


1 88  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  IX. 

patent  in  his  poetry  already.  They  were  soon  to  become 
paramount,  and  the  darnel  was  to  kill  the  poetic  wheat 
long  before  the  harvest.  The  later  career  of  Wither  is 
deplorable.  His  political  and  religious  tergiversations 
give  the  impression,  not  of  hypocrisy  in  conscious  error, 
but  of  hopeless  blundering,  of  the  wrong-headedness  of 
a  radically  tactless  man.  He  wrote  hymns,  which  have 
been  over-praised,  and  he  published  a  multitude  of 
pamphlets  in  prose  and  verse,  which  no  one  has  dared 
.to  flatter,  and  few  have  tried  to  read.  He  outlived 
James  I.  by  nearly  forty  years,  reaped  the  reward  of  his 
malignant  invectives  by  being  lodged  in  Newgate  and  in 
the  Tower,  and  died  at  last,  dishonoured  and  obscure,  on 
July  27,  1663,  as  melancholy  an  instance  as  we  find  in 
literary  history  of  genius  outlived,  and  a  beautiful  youth 
belied  by  a  wretched  and  protracted  old  age. 

At  the  close  of  the  reign  of  James  I.,  a  verse-writer 
appeared  who  almost  immediately  achieved  a  popular 
success  phenomenal  in  its  extent.  Francis  Quarles  is  a 
curious  figure,  and  one  difiicult  to  define  without  unfair- 
ness. He  had  but  few  great  qualities  of  an  imagina- 
tive kind,  and  he  had  many  of  the  faults  of  the  worst 
authors.  He  was  without  distinction  and  without  charm  ; 
he  "faggotted  his  fancies  as  they  fell,  and  if  they  rhymed 
and  rattled,  all  was  well."  The  work  was  hurriedly, 
unconscientiously  and  inartistically  done,  and  he  appealed 
directly  to  a  commonplace  audience.  Yet  he  was  far 
from  being  a  writer  without  merit.  His  wit — in  the 
seventeenth-century  sense — was  genuine  and  sometimes 
brilliant,  and  though  he  has  not  left  behind  him  one 
poem  which  can  be  read  all  through  with  pleasure,  he 


Cn.  IX.]  Quarks.  189 

had  a  large  share  of  the  poetic  temper,  and  intervals  of 
rare  felicity.  He  marks  the  decline  in  style,  and  displays 
broadly  enough  faults  which  were  characteristic  of  his 
generation,  and  which,  it  must  in  fairness  be  said,  he  did 
not  a  little  to  foster  and  extend. 

Although  the  general  impression  of  Quarles  is  that  he 
was  a  Puritan,  a  Nonconformist,  and  a  Radical,  the  exact 
opposites  were  the  case.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  good 
family,  a  strong  Church-and-State  man  throughout  life,  a 
loyal  and  even  impassioned  supporter  of  the  king.  Such 
were  his  private  convictions ;  but  the  tendency  of  his 
multitudinous  verses  is  wholly  in  the  other  direction,  and 
if  he  had  been  born  a  little  later,  it  is  not  easy  to  beheve 
that  he  could  have  failed  to  be  a  roundhead.  Francis, 
the  third  son  of  James  and  Joan  Quarles,  was  born  at  the 
manor-house  of  Stewards,  in  Essex,  in  May,  1592.  His 
father  died  when  he  was  seven,  and  his  mother  when  he 
was  fourteen  years  of  age.  From  1605  to  1608  he  was 
at  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  and  thence  proceeded  to 
Lincoln's  Inn.  We  know  not  exactly  at  what  period  of 
his  youth  it  was  that  he  served  the  Queen  of  Bohemia 
(as  she  afterwards  became),  in  the  office  of  cup-bearer, 
and  accompanied  her  to  Germany,  but  it  must  have 
been  after  her  marriage  in  1613.  He  returned  to 
England,  and  married  Ursula  Woodgate,  in  161 8.  Soon 
after  this  his  literary  activity  began. 

In  1620  he  seems  to  have  began  the  rapid  series  of 
his  verse-publications  with  A  Feast  for  Worvis^  which  is 
a  paraphrase  of  the  \iO(:>Voi  Jonah  into  heroic  couplets, 
each  passage  of  narrative  being  succeeded  by  a  "  medi- 
tatio"  of  about  equal  length.     The  success  of  this  work 


1 90  The  Jacobean  Poets,  [Ch.  IX. 

led  Quarles  during  the  same  year  to  follow  it  by  Hadassa, 
a  paraphrase  of  the  book  of  Esther,  cast  in  precisely  the 
same  form.  In  1624  he  published  Job  Militant,  which 
treated  the  book  of  Job  in  identical  fashion ;  and  a 
volume  of  Sion's  Elegies,  in  which  he  paraphrased  the 
prophecy  of  Jeremiah  in  a  slightly  different  manner,  the 
book  being  divided  into  four  "  threnodies,"  each  con- 
sisting of  subdivided  sections,  of  twelve  lines  each,  called 
*' elegies,"  but  all  composed,  as  before,  in  heroics.  He 
proceeded  to  treat  the  Canticles  in  the  same  w^ay,  in  his 
Sion's  Sonnets  of  1625,  the  sections  here  being  of  eight 
lines,  and  called  "sonnets."  Finally,  in  a  work  of  his 
late  life,  posthumously  pubHshed  as  Solomo?i^s  Recanta- 
tion, he  performed  the  same  labour  of  adaptation  on  the 
book  of  Ecclesiastes,  and  might,  indeed,  had  his  years 
been  prolonged,  have  translated  the  noble  prose  of  the 
entire  Bible  into  his  jigging  and  jingling  couplets,  of 
which  a  citation  from  A  Feast  for  Worms  will  give  a 
rather  favourable  idea — 

To  Nineveh  he  flieth  like  a  roe, 
Each  step  the  other  strives  to  over-go  ; 
And  as  an  arrow  to  the  mark  does  fly, 
So  bent  to  flight  flies  he  to  Nineveh. 
Now  Nineveh  a  mighty,  city  v/as, 
Which  all  the  cities  of  the  world  did  pass  ; 
A  city  which  o'er  all  the  rest  aspires, 
Like  midnight  Phoebe  o'er  the  lesser  fires  ; 
A  city,  which,  altho'  to  men  was  given, 
Better  beseemed  the  majesty  of  heaven  ; 
A  city  great  to  God,  whose  angle  wall 
Who  undertakes  to  mete  with  paces  shall 
Bring  Phoebus  thrice  abed  ere  it  be  done, 
Altho'  with  dawning  Lucifer  begun. 


Ch.  IX.]  Quarks.  191 

When  Jonah  had  approached  the  city  gate, 
He  made  no  stay  to  rest  nor  yet  to  bait, 
No  supple  oil  his  fainting  head  anoints, 
Stays  not  to  bathe  his  weather-beaten  joints. 
Nor  smooth'd  his  countenance,  nor  slick't  his  ski 
Nor  craved  he  the  hostage  of  an  inn. 

These  scriptural  paraphrases  form  the  principal 
tributions  of  Quarles  to  purely  Jacobean  literature.  "It 
is  said,  to  be  sure,  that  his  secular  narrative  poem, 
Argalus  and  Farthenia^  was  in  print  as  early  as  1622, 
but  no  one  living  has  seen  any  edition  earlier  than  the 
undated  one  of  1629.  It  is  beheved  that  for  nearly 
twenty  years  he  resided  in  Ireland,  being  for  part  at 
least  of  that  period  secretary  to  Archbishop  Ussher. 
Soon  after  his  return  to  England,  in  1639,  ^^  was  made 
Chronologer  to  the  City  of  London,  a  post  which  he 
held  until  his  death.  Among  the  best-known  of  his  later 
writings  are  his  Samson^  1631 ;  his  Divine  Fa?ides,  1632, 
four  books  of  miscellaneous  religious  pieces ;  his  famous 
Emblems,  1634-5;  and  two  prose  volumes,  the  Enchy- 
rtdion  of  1641,  and  The  Loyal  Convert  of  1643.  Quarles 
died  in  London  on  the  8th  of  September,  1644,  and 
during  the  succeeding  year  his  widow  published  a 
pleasant,  but  curiously  inaccurate  and  vague  memoir 
of  him.  The  excessive  popularity  of  his  most  character- 
istic writings  continued  long  after  his  death,  and  fifty 
years  later  his  hysterical  religious  lyrics,  slightly  adapted 
to  baser  uses,  continued  to  make  their  appearance  in 
erotic  collections,  side  by  side  with  the  effusions  of 
Rochester  and  Dorset.  In  the  eighteenth  century  they 
revived  again,  in  their  legitimate  form,  and  it  can  scarcely 


19^  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  IX. 

be  said  that  there  has  been  a  generation  in  which  Quarles 
has  not  still  been  popular  with  some  portion  of  the 
community.  Wood  was  premature  in  calling  him  "  the 
sometime  darling  of  the  plebeian  judgment,"  for  he  has 
never  ceased  to  hold  that  position. 

Quarles'  Biblical  paraphrases  were  strange  food  to  be 
so  greedily  devoured  by  men  whose  fathers  had  listened 
to  Spenser  and  Sidney.  The  dignity  and  the  lucidity  of 
the  original  narrative  disappear  entirely,  and  there  is 
added,  to  take  their  place,  a  moral  volubility,  a  copy- 
book system  of  ethics.  Prose  run  mad  in  couplets  is 
hardly  too  strong  an  expression  to  describe  the  greater 
part  of  these  Hadassas  and  Samsons,  and  the  ridicule 
which  successive  critics  have  poured  on  Quarles  is  not 
wholly  undeserved.  He  is  a  slovenly  and  tasteless 
writer.  But  it  is  undeserved,  if  it  be  not  toned  down, 
and  even  mingled  with  praise.  Quarles  passes  from  his 
rattling  loom  an  immense  amount  of  wretched  poetical 
shoddy,  cheap  and  ugly,  but  he  runs  real  gold  thread 
through  it  here  and  there,  and  rises  on  his  worst  self  to 
occasional  good  things.  His  fervour,  though  it  takes 
such  a  wearisome  form,  is  genuine,  and  if  he  had  made 
the  Bible  his  model,  instead  of  trying  to  improve  upon" 
and  popularize  the  text  itself,  he  might  often  have 
succeeded.  As  Fuller  says,  Quarles  "had  a  mind 
biassed  to  devotion." 

It  was  where  he  trusted  to  his  own  invention  that  he 
showed  his  best  side.  His  elegies  on  the  deaths  of 
private  persons,  of  which  he  published  seven  or  eight, 
are  steeped  in  Biblical  phraseology,  and  here,  where  he 
is  no  longer  trying  to  versify  the  dignified  prose  of  the 


Ch.  IX. J  Quarles.  193 

Scriptures,  he  is  occasionally  very  felicitous.  But  he  is 
also  inspired  here^  and  to  his  advantage,  by  the  elegiac 
writings  of  Donne,  with  which  he  must  have  met  in 
manuscript.  This  passage,  for  instance,  from  An 
Alphabet  of  Elegies  upon  Dr.  Aylmer,  is  directly  derived 
from  the  mode  of  that  potent  master — 

Go,  glorious  saint  !  I  knew  'twas  not  a  shrine 

Of  flesh  could  lodge  so  pure  a  soul  as  thine  ; 

I  saw  it  labour,  in  a  holy  scorn 

Of  living  dust  and  ashes,  to  be  sworn 

A  heavenly  chorister  ;  it  sighed  and  groaned 

To  be  dissolved  from  mortal,  and  enthroned 

Among  his  fellow-angels,  there  to  sing 

Perpetual  anthems  to  his  heavenly  king. 

But  where  Quarles  is  entirely  himself  is  in  a  kind  of 
vigorous,  homely  wit,  a  bending  of  common  language  to 
suit  exalted  ideas.  The  Elegy  on  Sir  Edmund  Wheeler^ 
for  instance,  contains  this  reflection,  which  would  have 
occurred  to  none  but  Quarles — 

So  vain,  so  frail,  so  poor  a  thing  is  Man  ! 

A  weathercock  that's  turn'd  with  every  blast ; 
His  griefs  are  armfuls,  and  his  mirth  a  span  ; 

His  joys  soon  crost  or  passed  ; 
His  best  delights  are  sauced  with  doubts  and  fears  ; 
If  bad,  we  plunge  in  care,  if  lost,  in  tears  ; 
Let  go  or  held,  they  bite  ;  we  hold  a  wolf  by  th'  ears. 

The  least  imperfect  passage  of  serious  poetry  to  be 
found  in  the  works  of  Quarles,  occurs,  perhaps,  in  the 
Mildreiados,  an  elegy  on  the  death  of  Mildred,  Lady 
Luckyn— 


194  The  yacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  IX. 

Oh  !  but  this  light  is  out !  what  wakeful  eyes 
E'er  marked  the  progress  of  the  queen  of  light, 

Robed  with  full  glory  in  her  austrian  skies, 
Until  at  length  in  her  young  noon  of  night, 

A  swart  tempestuous  cloud  doth  rise,  and  rise, 
And  hides  her  lustre  from  our  darken'd  sight ; 

Even  so,  too  early  death,  that  has  no  ears 

Open  to  saints,  in  her  scarce  noon  of  years, 
Dashed  out  our  light,  and  left  the  tempest  in  our  tears. 

After  quoting  this,  it  is  jDerhaps  not  unfair  to  show  the 
other  side  of  the  medal,  and  exemplify  Quarles  at  a 
less  happy  moment.  This  is  how,  in  the  secular  poem  of 
Argalus  and  Parthenia^  an  intemperate  lady  succumbs  to 
excess  of  feeling — 

Her  blistered  tongue  grows  hot,  her  liver  glows, 
Her  veiiis  do  boil,  her  colour  comes  and  goes, 
She  staggers,  falls,  and  on  the  ground  she  lies. 
Swells  like  a  bladder,  roars,  and  bursts,  and  dies. 

This  scarcely  sounds  so  passionate  as  the  poet  hoped 
it  would. 

An  isolated  figure  in  the  literature  of  the  age  is  Fulke 
Greville,  Lord  Brooke,  who  was  born  earlier  than  any 
other  writer  included  in  the  scope  of  this  volume,  but 
who  composed  the  poetry  of  his  which  we  possess, 
mainly,  in  all  probability,  in  the  reign  of  James  I. 
Lord  Brooke's  verse  is  unsympathetic  and  unattrac- 
tive, yet  far  too  original  and  well-sustained  to  be  over- 
looked. He  is  like  one  of  those  lakes,  which  exist  here 
and  there  on  the  world's  surface,  which  are  connected 
with  no  other  system  of  waters,  and  by  no  river  contri- 
bute to  the  sea.  Lord  Brooke's  abstruse  and  acrid 
poetry  proceeded  from  nowhere  and  influenced  no  one. 


Ch.  IX,]  Lord  Brooke.  195 

It  is  a  solitary  phenomenon  in  our  literature,  and  the 
author  a  kind  of  marsupial  in  our  poetical  zoology.  In 
the  breadth  of  his  sympathy  for  everything  written 
between  1580  and  1630,  Charles  Lamb  embraced  Lord 
Brooke's  strange  poems  and  plays.  It  is  not  possible  to 
improve  on  the  verdict  of  this  admirable  critic ;  Lamb 
says  of  Lord  Brooke  : — "  He  is  nine  parts  Machiavel  and 
Tacitus,  for  one  part  Sophocles  or  Seneca.  In  this 
writer's  estimation  of  the  faculties  of  his  own  mind, 
the  understanding  must  have  held  a  most  tyrannical 
pre-eminence.  Whether  we  look  into  his  plays,  or  his 
most  passionate  love-poems,  we  shall  find  all  frozen  and 
made  rigid  with  intellect."  It  is  quite  incredible  that 
Lord  Brooke's  poetry  should  ever  become  popular,  but  it 
deserves  as  much  attention  as  can  be  given  to  work 
essentially  so  unexhilarating. 

Fulke  Greville  was  born  at  Beauchamp  Court,  in 
Warwickshire,  in  1554.  In  November,  1564,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  Shrewsbury  School,  where  was  entered,  on  the 
some  day,  a  boy  named  Philip  Sidney,  whose  intimate 
friend  and  biographer  he  was  destined  to  become.  They 
were,  however,  separated  after  their  school-life  was  over, 
for  while  Sidney  went  to  Oxford,  Greville  became  a 
fellow-commoner  at  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  in  1568. 
Later  on,  in  the  court  of  Elizabeth,  he  renewed  his  com- 
panionship with  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  became  intimate 
with  Sir  Edward  Dyer.  Sidney  celebrates  their  en- 
thusiastic affection  in  several  well-known  poems — 

Welcome  my  two  to  me, 
The  number  best  beloved  ; 
Within  my  heart  you  be 
In  friendship  unremoved  ; 


196  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  IX. 

Join  hands  and  hearts,  so  let  it  be, 
Make  but  one  mind  in  bodies  three. 

While  Dyer  and  Sidney,  however,  applied  themselves 
early  to  poetry,  and  took  part  in  the  prosodical  revolu- 
tions of  the  Areopagus,  Greville  seems  to  have  refrained 
from  verse,  or  else,  what  he  wrote  has  not  come  down  to 
us.  At  all  events,  his  existing  works  app'ear  to  belong, 
in  the  main,  to  the  post-Elizabethan  period  ;  the  cycle  of 
Ccclica,  which  seems  to  date  from  the  close  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  being  excepted.  He  was  a  very  scanty 
contributor  to  the  Elizabethan  miscellanies.  His  in- 
terests, in  fact,  seem  to  have  been  mainly  political,  and 
after  the  death  of  Sidney,  Greville  rose  to  high  honours 
in  the  state.  As  early  as  1576  he  began  to  receive 
offices  in  Wales,  and  before  he  was  thirty,  he  had  been 
made  secretary  for  the  whole  principality.  In  1597  he 
was  knighted.  It  has  been  supposed  that  his  fortunes 
sustained  some  check  at  the  accession  of  James  I.,  but 
this  must  have  been  very  temporary,  for  w^e  find  him  con- 
firmed for  life  in  his  Welsh  office,  and  in  16 14  raised  to 
the  position  of  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  He  was 
made  a  peer  in  1620,  but  was  never  married  The  young 
Wihiam  Davenant  was  brought  up  in  his  service ;  and 
Lord  Brooke  was,  indeed,  throughout  his  career,  though 
accused  of  extreme  parsimony,  the  patron  of  poets  and 
scholars.  In  September,  1628,  in  circumstances  which 
have  remained  very  obscure,  Lord  Brooke  was  murdered 
in  his  London  house  in  Holborn,  by  a  serving-man  of 
the  name  of  Haywood,  who  stabbed  him  in  the  back 
in  his  bed-chamber,  and  then  committed  suicide  before 
he  could  be  brought  to  justice. 


Ch.  IX.]  Lo7'd  Brooke.  197 

Lord  Brooke  published  nothing  during  his  own  life- 
time, for  the  edition  of  his  tragedy  of  Mustapha,  which 
appeared  in  1609,  was  almost  certainly  issued  against  his 
will.  Five  years  after  his  death  was  printed,  in  a  small 
folio,  Certain  Learned  a7td Elegant  Works^  "^^ZZ^  a  collec- 
tion which  comprised  the  treatises  Of  Human  Learnings 
Upon  Fame  afid  Ifonottr,  and  Of  Wars,  the  tragedies  of 
AlaJiam  and  Mustapha,  the  lyrical  cycle  of  a  hundred  and 
nine  poems  called  Ccelica,  and  some  prose  miscellanies. 
So  late  as  1670  appeared  The  Remains  of  Fiilk  Greville, 
Lord  Brooke,  being  the  Treatises  of  Monarchy  and  Religion. 
These  two  volumes  contain,  with  very  trifling  exceptions, 
the  entire  poetical  works  of  Lord  Brooke,  his  famous 
prose  life  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  being  also  posthumous. 
It  is  a  vexed  question  when  these  works  were  written. 
The  publisher  of  1633  averred  that  "  when  he  grew  old 
he  revised  the  poems  and  treatises  he  had  wrote  long 
before,"  but  this  is  very  vague.  The  collection  called 
Ccelica  has  something  of  an  Elizabethan  character ;  the 
rest  seem  undoubtedly,  both  by  external  and  internal 
evidence,  to  belong  to  the  seventeenth  century.  The 
Treatise  of  Mojiarchy,  for  instance^  could  not  have  been 
written  till  some  years  after  the  accession  of  James. 

A  great  monotony  of  style  marks  the  poetry  of  Lord 
Brooke.  It  is  harsh  and  unsympathetic ;  the  verse, 
which  depends  for  life  on  its  stateliness  alone,  sinks, 
between  the  purple  passages,  to  a  leaden  dulness.  The 
"  treatises "  are  exceedingly  difficult  to  read  through. 
They  all  begin— and  this  is  a  very  curious  point — with 
an  eloquent  stanza  or  two,  only  to  sink  immediately  into 
a  jog-trot  of  prose  in  lengths.     One  or  two  critics  have 


198  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  IX. 

chosen  to  praise  Lord  Brooke  with  something  Hke 
extravagance.  It  is  true  that  he  is  full  of  ripe  and 
solemn  thought;  it  is  not  less  true  that  he  is  always 
endeavouring  to  present  to  us  noble  views  of  character 
and  conduct.  As  Phillips  said,  in  his  Theatrum 
Poetarmn  of  1675,  Lord  Brooke  has  "a  close,  mysterious, 
and  sententious  way  of  writing."  But,  except  here  and 
there  in  the  course  of  CcBlica,  he  entirely  forgets  that  the 
poet  has  to  be  an  artist ;  he  thinks  of  him  purely  as  a 
teacher,  and  as  a  prophet.  He  does  not  shrink  from 
such  lines  as — 

Knowledge's  next  organ  is  imagination, 

or  from  rhyming  "heart"  with  ''arts/'  and  alternating 
"pain"  and  "gain"  by  "fame"  and  "frame."  His 
dignity,  his  earnestness,  his  religious  and  moral  senten- 
tiousness  are  unilluminated  by  colour,  imagery,  or  melody. 

Two  sects  there  be  in  this  earth,  opposite ; 

The  one  makes  Mahomet  a  deity, — 
A  tyrant  Tartar  raised  by  war  and  sleight, 
Ambitious  ways  of  infidelity  ; 
The  world  their  heaven  is,  the  world  is  great, 
And  racketh  those  hearts  when  it  has  receipt. 

The  other  sect  of  cloister'd  people  is, 

Less  with  the  world,  with  which  they  seem  to  war, 
And  so  in  less  things  drawn  to  do  amiss, 
As  all  lusts  less  than  lust  of  conquest  are ; 
Now  if  of  God  both  these  have  but  the  name 
What  mortal  idol  then  can  equal  Fame  ? 

In  his  bold  political  speculations  and  his  reflections 
on  the  effects  of  tyranny  taken  from  ancient  history  and 


Ch.  IX.]  Lord  Brooke.  199 

modem  experience,  he  sometimes  reminds  us  of  Sir  John 
Davies,  but  at  a  great  distance. 

His  plays  are  what  Lamb  described  them  to  be,  frozen. 
He  tells  us  that  he  wrote  others,  to  which  he  intended 
his  elaborate  didactic  "treatises"  to  serve  as  choruses; 
and  in  particular  he  burned  with  his  own  hand  an  Antony 
and  Cleopatra  which  it  would  have  been  amusing  to 
compare  with  Shakespeare's.  The  two  we  possess  are, 
however,  all  that  we  can  desire,  and  few  have  had  the 
patience  to  read  them.  They  are,  in  some  measure, 
composed  upon  the  Seneca  model.  Alahani  opens  with 
a  long  rhymed  prologue  of  sonorous  irregular  stanza, 
spoken  by  the  ghost  of  a  murdered  King  of  Ormuz, 
descriptive  of  hell. 
This  is  how  it  begins  : — 

Thou  monster  horrible,  under  whose  ugly  doom, 

Down  in  Eternity's  perpetual  night, 

Man's  temporal  sins  bear  torments  infinite, 

For  change  of  desolation,  must  I  come 

To  tempt  the  earth  and  to  profane  the  light, 

From  mournful  silence  whose  pain  dares  not  roar, 

With  liberty  to  multiply  it  more  ? 

Nor  from  the  loathsome  puddle  Acheron 

Made  foul  with  common  sins,  whose  filthy  damps 

Feed  Lethe's  sink,  forgetting  all  but  moan. 

Nor  from  that  foul  infernal  shadowed  lamp 

Which  lighteth  Sisyphus  to  roll  his  stone, — 

These  be  but  bodies'  plagues,  the  skirts  of  hell ; 

I  come  from  whence  Death's  seat  doth  Death  excell. 

A  place  there  is  upon  no  centre  plac'd. 

Deep  under  depths  as  far  as  is  the  sky 

Above  the  earth,  dark,  infinitely  spac'd  ; 

Pluto,  the  King,  the  kingdom.  Misery : 

The  crystal  may  God's  glorious  seat  resemble, 

Horror  itself  these  horrors  but  dissemble. 


200  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  IX. 

Some  of  these  choruses,  in  a  long  broken  metre,  must, 
even  then,  have  seemed  exceedingly  old-fashioned. 
Mustapha  is  an  easier  play  to  follow,  and  Mrs.  Humphrey 
Ward  has  drawn  attention  to  the  almost  Miltonic 
magnificence  of  the  Chorus  of  Tartars  at  the  end  of 
the  fifth  act. 

Vast  superstition  !  glorious  style  of  weakness  ! 
Sprung  from  the  deep  disquiet  of  man's  passion, 
To  desolation  and  dispair  of  nature  ! 
The  texts  bring  princes'  titles  into  question  ; 
Thy  prophets  set  on  work  the  sword  of  tyrants  ; 
They  manacle  sweet  Truth  with  their  distinctions  ; 
Let  Virtue  blood  ;  teach  cruelty  for  God's  sake  ; 
Fashioning  one  God,  yet  him  of  many  fashions  ; 
Like  many-headed  Error  in  their  passions. 

Mustapha  has  less  rhyme  introduced  into  it  than 
Ataham,  and  has  a  somewhat  more  modern  air.  Human 
interest  and  the  play  of  the  emotions  are  entirely  neglected 
in  these  curious  wooden  dramas. 

Equally  abstruse,  and,  I  fear  it  must  be  acknowledged, 
equally  difficult  to  enjoy,  are  the  tragedies  of  William 
Alexander,  of  Menstrie,  afterwards  Earl  of  Stirling.  He 
was  born  about  1580,  and  early  became  a  friend  and 
fellow- student  of  James  I.  He  has  been  called  **  the 
second-rate  Scotch  sycophant  of  an  inglorious  despotism," 
but  this  is  needlessly  severe.  Like  so  many  of  his 
contemporaries,  he  celebrated  the  real  or  imaginary 
loves  of  his  youth  in  a  thin  volume  of  songs  and  sonnets 
called  Aurora,  printed  in  1604.  Before  this,  in  1603, 
he  had  published  in  Edinburgh  his  tragedy  of  Z>^/;7//^. 
To  this  followed  Crccsus  in  1604,  and  The  Atcxandraan 
in  1605.    He  reprinted  these,  and  added  :^  Julius  Cecsar, 


Ch.  IX.]  William  Alexander.  201 

in  1607,  calling  the  collection  Four  Monarchic  Tragedies, 
He  issued  an  Elegy  on  Prince  Henry  in  16 12,  and  a 
religious  poem  called  Doomsday  in  1614.  His  writings, 
strange  to  say,  were  popular,  and  were  frequently  re- 
printed during  his  lifetime.  In  1621  Alexander  was 
knighted;  in  1626  he  was  appointed  Secretary  for  Scot- 
land; in  1630  he  was  created  Viscount  Canada,  in  recog- 
nition of  his  colonial  services;  and  in  1633  was  made 
Earl  of  Sterling.  He  died  in  1640.  Stiff  and  pedantic 
as  he  is,  and  without  the  intellectual  weight  of  Lord 
Brooke,  Alexander  by  no  means  deserves  the  contempt 
which  has  been  thrown  upon  him.  The  Aurora  contains 
several  sonnets  and  madrigals  which  are  little  inferior 
to  the  best  of  Drummond's,  and  even  the  mail-clad 
versification  of  the  **  monarchic  tragedies "  is  often 
melodious  and  stately. 


CHAPTER   X. 

PHILIP    MASSINGER. 

Nothing  exemplifies  more  curiously  the  rapidity  of 
development  in  poetical  literature  at  the  opening  of  the 
seventeenth  century  than  the  fact  that  the  same  brief 
reign  which  saw  the  last  perfection  placed  on  the  edifice 
of  Elizabethan  drama  saw  also  the  products  of  the  pen 
of  Massinger.  For,  however  much  we  may  respect  the 
activity  of  this  remarkable  man,  however  warmly  we  may 
acknowledge  the  power  of  his  invention,  the  skill  and 
energy  with  which  he  composed,  and  however  agreeable 
his  plays  may  appear  to  us  if  we  compare  them  with  what 
succeeded  them  in  a  single  generation,  there  can  be  no 
question  that  the  decline  in  the  essential  parts  of  poetry 
from  Webster  or  Tourneur,  to  go  no  further  back,  to  Mas- 
singer  is  very  abrupt.  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  has  noted  in  this 
playwright  "a  certain  hectic  flush,  symptomatic  of  ap- 
proaching decay,"  and  we  may  even  go  further  and  discover 
in  him  a  leaden  pallor,  the  sign  of  decreasing  vitality. 
The  "  hectic  flush  "  seems  to  me  to  belong  more  properly 
to  his  immediate  successors,  who  do  not  come  within 
the   scope   of  this  volume,  to   Ford,  with  his   morbid 


Ch.  X.]  Philip  Massinger.  203 

sensibility,  and  to  Shirley,  with  his  mechanical  ornament, 
than  to  Massinger,  where  the  decline  chiefly  shows  itself 
in  the  negation  of  qualities,  the  absence  of  what  is 
brilliant,  eccentric,  and  passionate.  The  sentimental 
and  rhetorical  drama  of  Massinger  has  its  excellent 
points,  but  it  is  dominated  by  the  feeling  that  the  burn- 
ing summer  of  poetry  is  over,  and  that  a  russet  season 
is  letting  us  down  gently  towards  the  dull  uniformity  of 
winter.  Interesting  and  specious  as  Massinger  is,  we 
cannot  avoid  the  impression  that  he  is  preparing  us  for 
that  dramatic  destitution  which  was  to  accompany  the 
Commonwealth. 

So  much  of  Massinger's  work  appeared  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  I.,  that  he  may  perhaps  be  considered  as  scarcely 
Jacobean.  But  when  we  bear  in  mind  the  long  ap- 
prenticeship he  served  with  Fletcher  and  others,  and  if 
we  regard,  not  the  published  dates  of  his  principal  plays, 
but  the  years  in  which  they  must  reasonably  be  supposed 
to  have  been  acted,  we  come  to  think  of  Massinger  as 
not  merely  unalienably  Jacobean,  but  as  the  leading  poet 
of  the  close  of  James's  reign.  He  was  born  at  Salisbury, 
and  was  baptized  at  St.  James's  on  the  24th  of  November, 
1583,  being  thus  nineteen  years  younger  than  Shakespeare 
and  ten  years  than  Ben  Jonson.  His  father,  whose  name 
was  Arthur,  "happily  spent  many  years,  and  died  a  servant " 
to  the  family  of  the  Herberts,  but  he  was  ''^ geiierosus^''  and 
much  respected  by  the  heads  of  the  clan  which  he  thus 
''served"  in  delicate  matters  of  business.  It  has  been 
supposed  that  Sir  Philip  Sidney  was  the  god-father  of  the 
poet,  and  that  the  boy  became  page  to  the  Countess  of 
Pembroke,  but  these  are  matters  of  mere   conjecture. 


204  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  x. 

That  he  was  brought  up  in  or  near  Wilton,  and  was 
familiar  with  the  stately  occupants  of  that  great  house, 
may,  at  all  events,  be  taken  for  certain. 

On  the  T4th  of  May,  1602,  Philip  Massinger  was 
entered  as  a  commoner  of  St.  Alban's  Hall,  Oxford. 
Wood  gives  us  the  impression  that  the  Earl  of  Pembroke 
was  disappointed  in  the  lad,  who  "  gave  his  mind  more 
to  poetry  and  romances  for  about  four  years  and  more, 
than  to  logic  and  philosophy,  which  he  ought. to  have 
done,  as  he  was  patronized  to  that  end."  Langbaine, 
a  poorer  witness,  denies  this,  saying  that  he  was 
industrious,  and  that  his  father  alone  supported  his 
charges.  But  he  took  no  degree  when  he  left  Oxford 
in  1606,  abruptly,  owing  either  to  his  father's  death  or 
to  the  withdrawal  of  the  Herbert  patronage.  Giftbrd 
supposed  that  Massinger  had  lost  favour  by  becoming  a 
Roman  Catholic ;  the  fact  is  in  itself  not  certain,  but  it 
is  made  highly  probable  by  the  tone  of  several  of  his 
compositions.  Wood  says  that  on  reaching  London, 
Massinger,  "being  sufficiently  famed  for  several  speci- 
mens of  wit,  betook  himself  to  writing  plays."  The 
"specimens  of  wit"  have  not  come  down  to  us,  and  we 
are  unable  to  trace,  for  many  years,  the  plays  he  wrote. 
But  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  he  lived  in  extreme 
poverty,  and  that  his  literary  labours  were  for  a  long 
time  restricted  to  partnership  with  luckier  playwrights 
and  to  the  re-modelling  of  old,  discarded  dramas  of  the 
Elizabethan  age. 

There  exist  signs  that  in  16 13  Massinger  was  employed 
in  writing  plays  with  Fletcher  and  Field,  and  a  little 
later  with  Daborne  also.     The  earliest  work  in  which 


Ch.  X.]  Philip  Massinger,  205 

his  hand  can  certainly  be  traced  is  The  Fatal  Doivry^ 
which  he  wrote  in  conjunction  with  Field  about  161 9. 
The  Very  Woman  was  performed  at  Court  in  162 1.  But 
we  possess  the  names  of  seven  plays,  all  of  which  came 
into  Warburton's  hands,  and  were  burned  by  his 
egregious  cook — three  tragedies,  three  comedies,  and  one 
tragi-comedy.  All  these,  it  seems  probable,  were  written 
by  Massinger  without  help  from  any  author,  before 
1620.  In  thirteen  or  fourteen  of  Fletcher's  plays,  too, 
he  had  a  hand  or  at  least  a  main  finger.  Of  all  this 
large  section  of  his  work  it  is  obvious  that  no  criticism 
can  be  attempted,  for  all  must  be  conjecture.  Of  his  re- 
modelling of  plays,  The  Virgin  Martyr  is  the  one  clearly 
defined  example,  and  in  this  instance  it  cannot  be  said 
that  Massinger  shines  as  a  poet  by  comparison  with 
Dekker.  All  this  time,  he  was  probably  very  poor. 
When  he  was  forty  years  of  age,  we  find  him  piteously 
begging  to  be  relieved  by  a  loan  of  five  pounds. 

The  earliest  play  which  is  known  to  survive  in  which 
Massinger  was  not  assisted  by  any  other  poet  is  The 
Duke  of  Milan,  which  was  published,  with  a  dedication 
to  Lady  Catherine  Stanhope,  in  1623,  but  probably 
acted  about  three  years  earlier.  This  marked  the 
starting-point  of  a  period  during  which  Massinger  broke 
away,  we  cannot  guess  for  what  reason,  from  the 
bondage  of  working  under  Fletcher,  and  determined, 
already  rather  late  in  life,  to  show  that  he  could  carry 
through  a  play  unaided.  Perhaps  his  next  experiment 
was  The  Maid  of  Honour,  although  that  was  not  pub- 
lished until  1632.  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts 
(printed  1632)  could  not  have  preceded,  and  yet  must 


2o6  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  X. 

soon  have  followed  the  scandal  about  Sir  Giles  Mompes- 
son  in  1620.  To  the  same  period  has  been  ascribed 
The  Unnatural  Combat.  There  may  then  have  been  a 
pause  in  Massinger's  activity,  or  he  returned  to  his  work 
of  collaboration  with  Fletcher ;  but  four  important  dramas 
seem  to  belong  to  the  closing  years  of  the  life  of  James  I. 
These  are  The  Bondman^  published  in  1624,  7he  Rene- 
gade, The  Parlianmit  of  Love,  and  The  Great  Duke  of 
Florence.  If  those  are  correct  who  believe  all  these 
plays  to  have  been  produced  on  the  boards  before  1625, 
the  question  of  the  propriety  of  considering  JMassinger 
as  a  Jacobean  poet  is  settled.  He  thought  that  he  con- 
tinued to  improve,  and  that  The  Roman  Actor  was  "  the 
most  perfect  birth  of  my  Minerva."  But  the  truth  is  that 
we  should  be  admirably  acquainted  ^\ith  all  his  qualities 
and  his  defects  if  his  career  had  closed  with  that  of 
James  I.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  continued  to  live  on  until 
the  17th  of  March,  1638,  when  he  was  found  dead  in  the 
morning  in  his  house  on  the  Bankside.  His  body  was 
buried  next  day  in  St.  Saviour's,  Southwark,  in  the  grave 
already  occupied  by  the  dust  of  John  Fletcher.  His  later 
plays  included  The  Picture^  The  City  Madam,  Believe  as 
you  List,  The  Emperor  of  the  East,  and  The  Bashful 
Lover, 

The  comparison  has  been  made  between  Massinger  and 
such  earlier  poets  as  Webster.  This  is  a  parallel  which, 
from  our  present  standpoint,  militates  strongly  against  the 
first-named  writer.  For,  if  the  truth  be  told,  Massinger 
is  scarcely  a  poet,  except  in  the  sense  in  which  that  word 
may  be  used  of  any  man  who  writes  seriously  in  dramatic 
form.    What  we  delight  in  in  the  earlier  Elizabethans,  the 


Ch.  X.]  Philip  Massinger.  207 

splendid  bursts  of  imaginative  insight,  the  wild  freaks  of 
diction,  the  sudden  sheet-lightning  of  poetry  illuminating 
for  an  instant  dark  places  of  the  soul,  all  this  is  absent 
in  Massinger.  He  is  uniform  and  humdrum ;  he  has  no 
lyrical  passages ;  his  very  versification,  as  various  critics 
have  observed,  is  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from  prose, 
and  often  would  not  seem  metrical  if  it  were  printed 
along  the  page.  Intensity  is  not  within  his  reach,  and 
even  in  the  aims  of  composition  we  distinguish  between 
the  joyous  instinctive  lyricism  of  the  Elizabethans,  which 
attained  to  beauty  without  much  design,  and  this 
deliberate  and  unimpassioned  work,  so  plain  and  easy 
and  workmanlike.  It  is  very  natural,  especially  for  a 
young  reader,  to  fling  Massinger  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  to  refuse  him  all  attention. 

This  is  unphilosophical  and  ungenerous.  If  we  shift 
our  standpoint  a  little,  there  is  much  in  the  author  of 
The  Re7iegado  which  demands  our  respect  and  insures 
our  enjoyment.  If  he  be  less  brilliant  than  these  fiery 
poets,  if  his  pictures  of  life  do  not  penetrate  us  as  theirs 
do,  he  has  merits  of  construction  which  were  unknown 
to  them.  The  long  practice  which  he  had  in  prentice 
work  was  none  of  it  thrown  away  upon  him.  It  made 
him,  when  once  he  gained  confidence  to  write  alone,  an 
admirable  artificer  of  plays.  He  is  the  Scribe  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  He  knows  all  the  tricks  by  which 
curiosity  is  awakened,  sustained,  and  gratified.  He  com- 
poses, as  few  indeed  of  his  collaborators  seem  to  have  done, 
not  for  the  study  so  much  as  for  the  stage.  He  perceived, 
we  cannot  doubt,  certain  faults  in  that  noble  dramatic 
literature  of  Fletcher's  with  which  he  was  so  long  identi- 


2o8  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  X. 

fied.  He  perceived  Fletcher's  careless  exaggeration  and 
his  light  ideal.  It  was  Massinger  who  recalled  English 
drama  to  sobriety  and  gravity. 

The  absence  of  bloody  violence  in  his  plays  must 
strike  every  reader,  and  at  the  same  time  the  tendency 
to  introduce  rehgious  and  moral  reflections.  The  intel- 
lectual force  of  Massinger  was  extolled  by  Hazlitt,  and 
not  unjustly,  but  it  was  largely  exercised  in  smoothing 
out  and  regulating  his  conceptions.  The  consequence 
is  that  Massinger  tends  to  the  sentimental  and  the 
rhetorical,  and  that  description  takes  the  place  of  passion. 
His  characters  too  often  say,  in  their  own  persons, 
what  it  should  have  been  left  for  others  to  say  of  them. 
Variety  of  interest  is  secured,  but  sometimes  at  the 
sacrifice  of  evolution,  and  the  personages  act,  not  as 
human  creatures  must,  but  as  theatrical  puppets  should. 
His  humour  possesses  the  same  fault  as  his  seriousness, 
that  it  is  not  intense.  Without  agreeing  with  Hartley 
Coleridge,  who  said  that  Massinger  would  be  the  worst  of 
all  dull  jokers,  if  Ford  had  not  contrived  to  be  still  duller,  it 
must  be  admitted  that  the  humour  of  Massinger  is  seldom 
successful  unless  when  it  is  lambent  and  suffused,  when, 
that  is  to  say,  it  tinctures  a  scene  rather  than  illuminates 
a  phrase.  In  short,  Massinger  depends  upon  his  broad 
effects,  whether  in  comedy  or  tragedy,  and  must  not  be 
looked  to  for  jewels  ten  words  long.  His  songs  have  been 
the  scoff  of  criticism ;  they  really  are  among  the  worst 
ever  written.  He  was,  in  short,  as  cannot  be  too  often 
repeated,  essentially  unlyrical,  yet  his  plays  have  great 
merits.  They  can  always  be  read  with  ease,  for  they 
seem  written  with  decorum ;  as  Charles  Lamb  said,  they 


Ch.  X.]  PJiilip  Massinger.  209 

are  characterized  by  "  that  equabiHty  of  all  the  passions, 
which  made  his  EngHsh  style  the  purest  and  most  free 
from  violent  metaphors  and  harsh  constructions,  of  any 
of  the  dramatists  who  were  his  contemporaries." 

Further  insight  into  the  qualities  of  Massinger's  work 
may  perhaps  be  gained  by  a  more  detailed  examination 
of  one  or  two  of  his  dramas.  By  general  consent,  the 
best  written  and  the  most  characteristic  of  his  tragedies 
is  The  Duke  of  Milan^  the  most  solid  and  brilliant  of  his 
comedies  A  Neiv  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts.  In  the  former 
of  these  plays,  Sforza,  the  Duke,  is  newly  married  to 
Marcelia,  whom  he  loves  with  a  frantic  and  almost 
maniacal  uxoriousness.  His  delight  in  the  Duchess  is 
felt  to  be  ridiculous  and  odious  in  its  excess  by  his 
mother  Isabella  and  his  sister  Mariana,  who  are,  how- 
ever, kept  at  bay  by  Francisco,  a  nobleman  married  to 
Mariana,  and  the  Duke's  especial  favourite.  Forced  by 
the  approach  of  the  Emperor  Charles  to  go  forth  to  meet 
and  avert  his  conquering  army,  Sforza  tears  himself  from 
Marcelia,  but  not  until  he  has  wrung  from  Francisco,  whom 
he  leaves  as  regent,  an  oath  that  if  his  death  should  be 
reported,  Francisco  shall  instantly  kill  Marcelia,  whom 
Sforza  cannot  bear  to  think  of  as  surviving  him.  During 
the  Duke's  absence,  Francisco  dishonourably  makes  love 
to  the  Duchess,  and,  to  prejudice  her  against  her  husband, 
divulges  this  monstrous  plan.  Sforza  comes  back  safe 
and  sound,  but  observes  at  once  the  natural  coldness  of 
Marcelia,  who  does  not  appreciate  having  thus  been 
doomed  to  execution.  The  play  closes  in  violent  and 
ferocious  confusion  \  but  that  was  the  taste  of  the  time. 
It  is  clearly  constructed,  the  plot  is  lucidity  itself,  and 

p 


2IO  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  x. 

the  first  act,  as  is  usual  with  Massinger,  is  admirably 
devised  to  put  the  spectator  in  possession  of  all  the 
necessary  facts. 

When,  however,  we  come  to  reflect  upon  the  conduct 
of  this  plausible  drama,  we  find  much  which  calls  for 
unfavourable  comment.  There  has  been  a  great  deal 
of  bustle  and  show,  and  an  interesting  spectacle,  but  no 
play  of  genuine  character.  If,  as  has  been  conjectured, 
it  was  Massinger's  intention  deliberately  to  emulate 
Shakespeare  in  Othello^  his  failure  is  almost  ludicrous. 
The  figures  are  strongly  contrasted,  and  they  play  at 
cross-purposes ;  did  they  not  do  so,  the  tragedy  would 
come  to  a  stand-still ;  their  inconsistencies  are  the  springs 
of  the  movement.  Hazlitt  and  others  have  found  great 
fault  with  the  conception  of  Sforza,  as  being  irrelevant 
and  violent.  It  is  not  needful,  however,  to  go  so  far  as 
this  in  censure.  It  may  surely  be  admitted  that  Sforza 
is  a  credible  type  of  the  neuropathic  Italian  despot. 
His  agitation  in  the  first  act  is  true  and  vivid ;  his  moods 
are  those  of  a  man  on  the  verge  of  madness,  but  they 
do  not  cross  that  verge. 

He  reaches  the  highest  pitch  of  hysterical  agitation 
in  the  fine  scene  in  the  fifth  act,  where  the  dead  body 
of  Marcelia  is  brought  across  the  stage — 

Carefully,  I  beseech  you  : 
The  gentlest  touch  ;  and  then  think 
What  I  shall  suffer.     O  you  earthly  gods, 
You  second  natures,  that  from  your  great  master, 
Who  join'd  the  limbs  of  torn  Hippolytus 
And  drew  upon  himself  the  Thunderer's  envy, 
Are  taught  those  hidden  secrets  that  restore 
To  life  death-wounded  men  !     You  have  a  patient 


Ch.  X.]  Philip  Massinger.  211 

On  whom  to  express  the  excellence  of  art 
Will  bind  even  Heaven  your  debtor,  tho'  it  pleases 
To  make  your  hands  the  organs  of  the  work 
The  saints  will  smile  to  look  on,  and  good  angels 
Clap  their  celestial  wings  to  give  it  plaudits. 
How  pale  and  worn  she  looks  !  O,  pardon  me, 
That  I  presume  (dyed  o'er  with  bloody  guilt. 
Which  makes  me,  I  confess,  far,  far  unworthy), 
To  touch  this  snow-white  hand.     How  cold  it  is  ! 
This  once  was  Cupid's  firebrand,  and  still 
'Tis  so  to  me.     How  slow  her  pulses  beat  too  ! 
Yet  in  this  temper  she  is  all  perfection. 
And  mistress  of  a  heat  so  full  of  sweetness, 
The  blood  of  virgins  in  their  pride  of  youth 
Are  balls  of  snow  or  ice  compar'd  unto  her. 

The  real  fault  of  The  Duke  of  Milan  is  not  the 
unnaturalness  of  Sforza,  but  the  fact  that  the  dramatist 
has  limited  his  attention  to  him.  The  remoteness  of 
the  Duke's  passions,  his  nervous  eccentricities,  should 
have  forced  Massinger  to  keep  all  the  characters  at 
a  low  and  quiet  pitch,  so  to  contrast  the  neurosis  of 
Sforza  with  their  normal  condition.  But  all  the  other 
characters  are  no  less  frenzied  than  he  is,  without  his 
excuses.  The  abrupt  wooing  of  Francisco,  who  is  a 
mere  shadow  of  lago,  in  the  second  act,  is  utterly  untrue ; 
his  equally  abrupt  repentance,  in  the  third  act,  is  not  less 
extraordinary,  and  is  introduced  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  Marcelia  should  know  Sforza's  plan  for  her  being 
killed  in  case  he  does  not  return  alive.  If  we  turn  to 
the  female  characters,  they  are  not  more  natural;  the 
mother  and  sister  of  the  Duke  are  vulgar  scolds,  Marcelia 
herself  utterly  ugly  and  absurd.  Everything  is  extreme 
and  yet  weak ;  the  characters  are  made  of  india-rubber, 


212  TJie  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  X. 

and  the  dramatist  presses  them  down  or  pulls  them  out 
as  he  sees  fit.  His  study  of  Sforza  is  carefully  executed, 
and  has  passages  of  great  suavity  and  charm — such  as 
his  meeting  with  the  Emperor  Charles— but  to  the 
evolution  of  this  single  character  the  entire  play  is 
sacrificed. 

This  speech  of  Sforza,  when  introduced  to  the 
Emperor  Charles,  is  one  of  the  best  things  in  the  play — 

If  example 
Of  my  fidelity  to  the  French,  whose  honours, 
Titles,  and  glories,  are  now  mixed  with  yours, 
As  brooks,  devoured  by  rivers,  lose  their  names, 
Has  power  to  invite  you  to  make  him  a  friend. 
That  hath  given  evident  proof  he  knows  to  love. 
And  to  be  thankful :  this  my  crown,  now  yours, 
You  may  restore  me,  and  in  me  instruct 
These  brave  commanders,  should  your  fortune  change, 
Which  now  I  wish  not,  what  they  may  expect 
From  noble  enemies  for  being  faithful. 
The  charges  of  the  war  I  will  defray. 
And  what  you  may,  not  without  hazard,  force. 
Bring  freely  to  you  ;  I'll  prevent  the  cries 
Of  murder'd  infants  and  of  ravish'd  maids, 
Which  in  a  city  sack'd,  call  on  Heaven's  justice. 
And  stop  the  course  of  glorious  victories : 
And  when  I  know  the  captains  and  the  soldiers, 
That  have  in  the  lost  battle  done  best  service, 
And  are  to  be  rewarded,  I  myself, 
According  to  their  quality  and  merits. 
Will  see  them  largely  recompens'd. — I  have  said, 
And  now  expect  the  sentence. 

When  we  turn  from  this  tragedy  to  the  comedy  of  A 
New  Way  to  Fay  Old  Dcbts^  we  are  struck  by  similar 
characteristics,  modified,  however,  by  the  fact  that  this  is 


Ch.  X.]  Philip  Mas  singer.  213 

a  much  stronger  and  more  vivid  play  than  The  Duke  of 
Milan.  At  the  outset  we  are  interested  to  find  ourselves 
on  a  scene  so  frankly  English  and  modern.  Massinger 
had  much  of  the  spirit  of  the  journalist,  and  it  has  been 
pointed  out  by  Mr.  Gardiner  and  others  that  he  was 
constantly  engaged  in  referring  to  events  of  passing 
politics.  Here  he  was  inspired  by  a  sensational  case 
which  had  but  recently  engaged  the  notice  of  the  courts 
of  law,  and  the  comedy  palpitates  with  topical  allusions. 
The  plot  of  the  play  is  clear  and  interesting.  Sir  Giles 
Overreach,  a  self-made  man,  by  alternately  wheedling  and 
bullying  the  lax  gentry  of  the  country-side,  has  ruined 
them  all,  and  rules  the  whole  neighbourhood.  In 
particular,  he  has  so  cleverly  played  on  the  illusions  and 
the  vices  of  young  Wellborn,  the  squire,  that  he  has 
stripped  him  of  everything,  and  the  generous  Wellborn 
has  to  appear  among  his  late  tenants  in  rags.  Overreach 
has  no  son,  but  one  daughter,  and  his  design  is  to  marry 
her  to  Lord  Lovell,  the  local  grandee,  and  so  finally 
secure  his  own  position  in  the  county.  He  is  over- 
tricked,  however,  by  a  rich  and  eccentric  widow.  Lady 
AUworth,  who  patronizes  Wellborn,  the  prodigal,  and 
marries  Lord  Lovell  herself.  The  intrigue  of  the  last 
act,  in  which  Wellborn  constrains  Overreach  to  give  him 
the  money  with  which  he  pays  his  old  debts,  gives  name 
to  the  play,  but  is  somewhat  obscurely  managed.  Not- 
withstanding this,  however,  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old 
Debts  is  the  example  of  the  entire  Elizabethan  and 
Jacobean  drama  outside  Shakespeare  which  has  longest 
held  its  place  on  the  modern  stage. 

As  is  customary  with  Massinger,  the  first  act  is  singu- 


214  T^Ji^  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  x. 

larly  skilful.     The  story  told  in  sarcasm  to  Wellborn  by 
Tapwell,  the  rascally  innkeeper,  is  exactly  what  we  need 
to  put  us  in  possession  of  the  facts.    Wellborn's  condition, 
character,  and  prospects  are  placed  before  us  in  absolute 
clearness,  our   sympathies  are  engaged,   and  the   little 
mystery  of  his  whisper  to  the  lady,  at  the  close  of  the  act, 
is  left  dark  so  as  to  freshen  and  carry  on  our  curiosity. 
In  the  second  act,  we  begin  to  appreciate  the  force  and 
cunning  of  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  in  whose  wickedness 
there  is  something  colossal  that  impresses  the  imagina- 
tion.    The  third  act  sustains  this  impression  and  even 
increases   it,   but  after   this   the   threads    become,    not 
exactly  entangled,  but  twisted,  and  the  illusion  of  nature 
is  gradually  lost.     In  A  New   Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts 
that  unhappy  forcible-feebleness  of  Massinger's  is  not  so 
strikingly  prominent  as  elsewhere,  yet  we  see  something 
of  it  in  Marall's  crude  and  abrupt  temptation  of  Wellborn 
to  commit  some  crime  and  so  put  an  end  to  his  miseries. 
A  certain  Justice  Greedy  pervades  the  piece,  a  magistrate 
who  is  always  raging  for  his  food.     Some  critics  have 
thought   his    gluttonies   very   diverting,   but    Massinger 
borrowed  them  directly  from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and 
they  are  too  incessant  not  to  become  fatiguing.     The 
charm    of  this  play,  after   all,  consists   in   its   realistic 
picture  of  English  country  life  in  T620,  and  in  its  curious 
portrait  of  the  great  savage  parvenu,  eater  of  widows  and 
orphans,  a  huge  machine  for  unscrupulous  avarice  and 
tyranny.     In  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  Massinger  approaches 
more  nearly  than  anywhere  else  to  a  dramatic  creation 
of  the  first  order. 

Little  would  be  gained  by  examining  with  the  like 


Ch.  X.]  Philip  Masstnger.  215 

minuteness  the  rest  of  Massinger's  dramas.  For  so  brief 
a  sketch  as  we  must  here  confine  ourselves  to^  it  is 
enough  to  say  that  in  the  main  they  present  the  same 
characteristics.  This  playwright  commonly  shows  a 
capacity  for  depicting  courtly  and  gentle  persons,  engaged 
in  pleasant  converse  amongst  themselves.  For  suavity 
and  refinement  of  this  kind,  The  Grand  Diike  of  Florence 
is  remarkable.  Lamb  has  praised  The  Picture  for  "  good 
sense,  rational  fondness,  and  chastened  feeling;"  this 
is  true  of  its  execution,  but  hardly  of  its  repulsive  central 
idea.  On  the  whole,  Massinger  may  be  commended  for 
the  prominence  and  the  dignity  which  he  readily  assigns 
to  women  ;  but  in  attempting  to  show  them  independent, 
he  not  unfrequently  paints  them  exceedingly  coarse  and 
hard.  His  political  bias  was  towards  a  kind  of  oligarchic 
liberalism;  Coleridge  describes  him  as  "a  decided 
Whig."  Sometimes  he  indulged  this  tendency  in  politics 
by  satirizing  the  ladies  of  a  less  aristocratic  walk  of  life 
than  he  usually  affected,  and  The  City  Madam  is  a  lively 
example  of  his  gifts  in  this  direction.  The  diction  of 
the  dramatist  is  particularly  rich  in  the  last-named  play, 
and  Massinger  has  not  written  better  verse  than  this 
from  Luke's  soliloquy  in  the  third  act — 

Thou  dumb  magician  {taking  out  a  key]  that  without  a  charm 

Didst  make  my  entrance  easy,  to  possess 

What  wise  men  wish  and  toil  for  !     Hermes'  Moly, 

Sibylla's  golden  bough,  the  great  elixir 

Imagin'd  only  by  the  alchymist, 

Compar'd  with  thee  are  shadows,— thou  the  substance, 

And  guardian  of  felicity  !     No  marvel 

My  brother  made  thy  place  of  rest  his  bosom. 

Thou  being  the  keeper  of  his  heart,  a  mistress 


2i6  The  Jacobean  Poets.  [Ch.  X. 

To  be  hugg'd  ever  !     In  bye-corners  of 
This  sacred  room,  silver  in  bags,  heap'd  up 
Like  billets  saw'd  and  ready  for  the  fire, 
Unworthy  to  hold  fellowship  with  bright  gold 
That  flow'd  about  the  room,  conceal'd  itself. 
There  needs  no  artificial  light ;  the  splendour " 
Makes  a  perpetual  day  there,  night  and  darkness 
By  that  still-burning  lamp  for  ever  banished  ! 
But  when,  guided  by  that,  my  eyes  had  made 
Discovery  of  the  caskets,  and  they  opened, 
Each  sparkling  diamond  from  itself  shot  forth 
A  pyramid  of  flames,  and  in  the  roof 
Fix'd  it  a  glorious  star,  and  made  the  place 
Heaven's  abstract  or  epitome  !     Rubies,  sapphires. 
And  ropes  of  orient  pearl,  these  seen,  I  could  not 
But  look  on  with  contempt. 

When  the  directly  GaUic  fashion  of  the  Restoration  had 
gone  out,  and  dramatists  had  turned  once  more  to  their 
Jacobean  predecessors,  Massinger  came  back  into  favour. 
His  example  had  much  to  do  in  forming  the  style  of  such 
sentimental  tragic  writers  as  Rowe  and  Lillo,  and  again, 
a  century  later,  his  influence  was  paramount  on  Talfourd 
and  Sheridan  Knowles.  He  has  always  been  easy  to 
imitate,  and  it  may  be  said  that  until  Lamb  began  to 
show  quite  clearly  what  the  old  English  drama  really 
was,  most  readers  vaguely  took  their  impression  of  it 
from  the  pages  of  Massinger.  He  was  succeeded,  it  is 
true,  by  several  younger  playwrights,  particularly  by 
Ford,  Shirley,  and  Brome;  but  each  of  these — all  poets 
whose  works  lie  outside  the  scope  of  the  present  volume 
—returned  closer  than  he  did  to  the  tradition  of  their 
fathers.  Massinger  is,  really,  though  not  technically  and 
literally,  the  last  of  the  great  men.  In  him  we  have  all 
the  characteristics  of  the   school  in  their  final  decay, 


Ch.  X.]  PJiilip  Massinger.  217 

before  they  dissolved  and  were  dispersed.  At  the  same 
time,  it  must  never  be  forgotten  that  we  do  not  know 
what  he  may  have  been  capable  of  in  his  youth,  and  that 
he  was  nearly  forty,  and  therefore  possibly  beyond  his 
poetic  prime,  before  he  wrote  the  earliest  play  which  has 
come  down  to  us.  If  Warburton's  miserable  cook  had 
not  burned  Mmen^a's  Sacrifice 2,Xi^  The  Italian  Nightpiece^ 
we  might,  possibly,  put  Massinger  on  a  higher  level ;  but 
criticism  can  make  no  conjectures,  and  we  must  place 
the  worthy  and  industrious  playwright  where  we  find 
him. 


INDEX. 


Abuses      Stript      and      IVhipi, 

Wither,  183,  184 
Agincotcrt,  Ballad  of ^  96 

,  Bailie  of,  97 

Alaham,  Lord  Brooke,  199,  200 
Albiunazar,  Tomkis,  177,  1 78 
Alchymist,    The,    Ben    Jonson, 

24,  27-30,  33,  178 
Alexander,      Sir     William,     of 

Menstrie,  106,  200,  201 
Alps  Lost  by  Lusty  Rowley,  130 
Amends  for  Ladies,  Field,  87, 

88 
Anatomy    of  the     World,    An, 

J.  Donne,  48 
Ancrum,   Robert  Ker,   Earl  of, 

106 
Anthologies,  Elizabethan,  6 
Antony  and   Cleopatra,  Shake- 
speare, 20 

,  Lord  Brooke,  199 

Atpins  and  Virginia,  Webster, 

'165,  170,  171 
Argahcs  atid  Parthetiia,  Quarles, 

191,  194 
Arnim,  Robert,  113 


Atheisms    Tragedy,    The,    Tour- 

neur,  159,  162-164 
Aubrey,  John,  83 
Atirora,  Alexander,  200,  201 
Aytoun,  Sir  Robert,  106 


B 


Bandello's  Novelle,  132,  166 
Barkstead,    William,    22,     112, 

113 

Bartiabae  Itinerarium,  R.  Brath- 

wait,  109-II2 
Barnes,  Barnaby,  9,  102 
Barnfield,  Richard,  5 
Baron^s    Wars,    The,   Drayton, 

94 
Barry,  Lodovvick,  132 
Bartholomew  Fair,  Ben  Jonson, 

25,  32 
Basse,  William,  156,  157 
Battle  of  Agincourt,  The,g'j 
Beaumont,  Francis,  68-87,  107 

and  Fletcher,  68-S7,  113 

,  Sir  John,  107,  108 

,    Sir  John  (the   younger), 

107 


220 


Index. 


Bedford^  S.  Daniel's  Epistle  to 

the  Countess  of,  ii 
Beggar''s   Bush,    The,    Fletcher 

and  Massinger,  82 
Bloody  Bj-other,  The,  Fletcher, 

78,  79 
Bond,  Mr.  Warwick,  156 
Bondman,  The,  206 
Bondiica,  Fletcher,  78,  79 
Bosworth   Field,    Sir   J.    Beau- 
mont, 107,  108 
Brathwait,  Richard,  109-112 

,  Sir  Strafford,  109 

Breton,  Nicholas,  15-17 
Brewer,  Anthony,  133-137 
Bridges,  Mr,  Robert,  62 
Britain's  Ida,  1 49-1 51 
Britannia's        Pastorals,        W, 

Browne,  151-155 
Brooke,  Lord.     See  Greville 

,  Christopher,  157,  182,  185 

Browne,  William,  151-157,  182, 

185 
Bullen,  Mr.  A.  H.,  17,  89,  90, 

127,  128,  174 
Btissy  d'Ambois,  G.  Chapman, 
40,  41 


Camden,  William,  24 

Campion,  Thomas,  35,  89-93 

Carew,  Richard,  8 

,  Thomas,  27 

Catiline's  Conspiracy,  Jonson, 
24,  30-32 

Cervantes,  proof  of  early  popu- 
larity, 76 

Challenge  for  Beauty,  Heywood, 
119,  127 

Changeling,The,  Middleton,  126 

Chapman,  George,  8,  24,  39-46, 
133.  165,  173 

Chess,  A  Game  at,  Middleton, 
126,  128 


Chettle,  Henry,  174 

Christ's    Victory  and  Triumph, 

G.  Fletcher,  138-144 
Christian     turned     Turk,     A, 

Daborne,  176 
Chronologer,  City — his  duty,  26, 

125,  191 
Churchyard,  Thomas,  4 
City  Madam,  Massinger,  216 
Cockayne,  Sir  Aston,  83 
Ccelica,  Lord  Brooke,  197,  198 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  13,  27,  65,  86, 

216 

,  Hartley,  208 

Constable,  Henry,  5 
Cooke,  John,  132 
Coriolanus,  20 
Craig,  Alexander,  106 
Cromwell,  Oliver,  177 
Cumberland,  S.  Daniel's  Epistle 

to  the  Countess  of,  1 1 
Cupid's  Ecvens^e,  Beaumont  and 

Fletcher,  85" 
Cymbeline,  20 
Cypress  Grove,  The,  Drummond, 

106 


Daborne,  Robert,  163,  176,  204 
Daniel,  John,  114 

,  Samuel,  9-14,  23,  35,  ()2 

Davenant,  William,  196 

Davies,  Sir  John,  8,  9 

Davis,  John,  of  Hereford,  112, 

185 
Day,  John,  173-176 
Defence  of  Ry me,  Daniel,  10 
Dekker,  Thomas,  7,  21-23,  125, 

165,  173,  205 

Devil's  an   Ass,    The,   Jonson, 

25.  32 

Charter,  The,  Barnes,  9 

La7u  Case,  The,  Webster, 

166,  171 


Index. 


221 


Divine  Weehs  and  Works^  Syl- 
vester's translation  of  Du 
Bartas,  14 

Donne,  Dr.  John,  47-67,  92, 
103.  i57j  i84»  193;  birth  and 
education,  49  ;  marriage  and 
advancement,  50 ;  his  effect 
on  versification,  48,  61-64, 
67 ;  religion,    58,    59  ]   style, 

65 

Drayton,  Michael,  93-101,  152, 
153,  183;  place  in  literature, 
93,  94  ;  birth,  94  ;  ill  results 
from  Gratulatory  Poem  to 
King  James,  94;  Odes,  etc., 
95-97  ;  characteristics,  100 ; 
death,  his  epitaph,  loi 

Drummond  of  Hawthornden, 
William,  25,  54,  62,  71,  98, 
101-106,  174  ;  birth  and  edu- 
cation, 102 ;  French  influence, 
ib.  ;  his  verse,  104  ;  sonnet  to 
the  Nightingale,  ib.  ;  Ode  of 
the  Ascension,  105  ;  and  Jon- 
son,  106 

Dryden,  John,  30,  32,  37,  54, 
67,  79,  106,  178,  185 

Du  Bartas,  14,  15 

Duchess  of  Malfy,  The,  Web- 
ster, 160,  166-170 

Duke  of  Milan,  The,  Massinger, 
205,  209-213 

Dyer,  Sir  Edward,  5,  195,  196 


Eashvard  Hoel  24,  40,  165 
Elegies  of  Donne,  55-58 
Eliza,   Canto  on  the  Death  of, 

G.  Fletcher,  137 
Elizabethan  Poetry,  2,  4,  22 
Emblems,  Quarles,  191 
England's  Helicon,  6 
English    Traveller,    The,    Hey- 

wood,  1 18-120,  122 


Epicene,  or  the  Silent  IVo/nan . 

B.  Jonson,  24,  30 
Epistles,  Daniel,  10- 12 

-,  Donne,  53-55 

Epithalamia  of  Donne,  55 
Eugenia,  Chapman,  42,  43 


Faery  Queen,  The,  139 

Fair  Maid    of  the    Exchange^ 

The,  134-136 
Fair  Maid  of  the   West,    The, 

Heywood,  1 19 
Fair   Quarrel,  A,  Rowley  and 

Middleton,  130 
Fairfax,  Edward,  8 
Faithful   Shepherdess,    The,    J. 

Fletcher,  71,  72 
False    One,    The,  Fletcher  and 

Massinger,  80 
Fatal  Dotvry,    The,  Field,   87, 

88,  205 
Feast  for  Worms,  A,  Quarles, 

189,  190 
Fidelia,  G.  Wither,  185,  186 
Field,  Nathaniel,  %1,  88,   176, 

204 
Fleay,    Mr.,    27,    Tz^    8i»    124, 

133,  174,  175 
Fletcher  family,  137,  138 

,  Giles,  the  younger,   137- 

144,  150;  birth,  137;  career, 
138  ;  his  religious  poems,  137- 
144 

,   John,    ^^-%T,    130,    137, 

204,  208 ;  birth  and  educa- 
tion, 69  ;  first  associated  with 
Beaumont,  69 ;  collaboration 
with  Beaumont,  73 ;  later 
work,  73,  77,  78  ;  associated 
with  Massinger,  79,  81,  82  ; 
unaided  plays,  81  ;  death  and 
burial,  83  ;  and  Daborne,  176 
,  Joseph,  151 


222 


Index. 


Fletcher,  Phineas,  137,  144-150; 

relation  of  his  style  to  Spenser, 

149 
Florence,    The   Great  Duke   of, 

206,  215,  216 
Flo7i>crs    of   Sion,    Drummond, 

104-106 
Ford,  John,  160,  162,  166,  202 
Forest,  The,  Jonson,  25,  37 
Freeman,  Thomas,  113 
Fuller,  Thomas,  83,  192 
Fimcral  Elegies,  Donne,  56,  57 


Garden,  Alexander,  106 
Gardiner,  Mr.  S.  R.,  213 
Gildon,  Charles,  164 
Gipsy,  The  Spanish^  Middleton, 

126,  127 
Goffe,  Thomas,  179 
Gorges,  Sir  Arthur,  8,  157,  158 
Gough,  Robert,  133 
Greene's  Tu  Quoque,  132 
Greville,  Fulke,   Lord  Brooke, 
194-200  ;  birth  and  education, 
195  ;  success  at  Court,    196  ; 
tragic  death,  ib.  ;  pubhcation 
of  his  works,  197  ;  style,  197- 
200 


H 


Hadassa,  Quarles,  190,  192 

Hall,  Arthur,  8 

,  Bishop  Joseph,  9 

ilamlet,  1 8,  19 

Harington,  Francis,  7 

,  Sir  John,  7 

Harino7iy  of  the  C/mrch,  Dray- 
ton, 183 

Ilazlitt,  William,  85,  123 

Hector  of  Germany,  The,  Wm. 
Smith,  133 


Heir,  The,  May,  180 

Herbert,  George,  49 

Heywood,  Thomas,  116-123  ; 
place  in  Hterature,  117  ;  birth 
and  education,  118  ;  dramatic 
works,  118-121  ;  poems,  I2i- 
123 

Hiren,  Barkstead,  112 

Hog  hath  Lost  his  Pearl,  R. 
Tailor,  176,  177 

Holiday,  Dr.  Barton,  179 

Holy  Somiets,  J.  Donne,  58,  59 

Homer,  Chapman's  translation, 

43-46 
Honest  Man  s  Fortune,  176 
Humour  out  of  Breath,  Day,  174 
Hunter,  Joseph,  93 
Huntingdon,  Donne's  Letter  to 

the  Countess  of,  54 
Hymenaei,  B.  Jonson,  35 
Hymeti's  Triumph,  Daniel,  13 
Ldymns  of  Astnea,  Sir  J.  Davies, 

9 


L  luould  and  yet  L  would  not,  N. 

Breton,  15,  16 
Lliads  of  Homer,  G.  Chapman, 

43-46 
Lnner     Temple     Masque,     W. 

Browne,  152,  155 
Lsle  of  Gulls,  Day,  174 


Jessopp,  Augustus,  Dr.,  64 

Jones,  Inigo,  26,  27 

Jones,  Robert,  114 

Jonson,  Ben,  23-39,  40,  44,  54, 
62,  65,  70,  71,  ^1,  92,  loi, 
106,  124,  125,  152,  156,  165, 
170,  171,  173,  I74>.I78,  im- 
prisoned,   24  \    religion,    24 ; 


hidex. 


223 


travels  for  Sir  W.  Raleigh, 
24  ;  Poet-laureate,  25  ;  visit 
to  Drummond,  25,  26  ;  City 
Chronologer,  26  ;  superseded 
at  Court,  27  ;  his  death,  ib. 
masterpieces,  27-30  ;  Roman 
tragedies,  30-32 ;  examples 
of  blank  verse,  33-36 ;  cha- 
racter   of    his    writings,    38, 

39 
Julius  Cczsar^  Shakespeare,  171 
,  Alexander,  200 


K 


Keats,  John,  on  Chapman's 
Horner^  44 

Ker,  Robert,  Earl  of  Ancrum, 
106 

King  and  No  King,  A,  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  73,  76 

King  Lear,  19 

Kjiight  of  the  Bnrnino  Pestle, 
The,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
73^76 


Lamb,  Charles,  29,  39,  116,  119, 
121,  123,  126,  128,  130,  168, 
170,   175.  176,  195.  I99,:208, 
216 
Law  Tricks,  Day,  174 
Leighton,  Sir  William,  114 
LJngua,  Tomkis,  dufi     /  y  ':' 

and  Oliver  Cromwell,  ib. 

Locustes,  P.  Fletcher,  145 
Lodge,  Thomas,  7,  51 
Love's  Exchange,  Donne,  64 
Lucan,      Gorges'      translation, 

158 
Lucrece,  The  Rape  of'HeyyfOoAf 

121 
Lyly,  John,  5,  7 


M 


Macbeth,  20 

Magnetic   Lady,     The,    Jonson, 

27,33 
Maid  of  Honour,    The,    Mas- 
singer,  205 
Maidof  the  Mill,  The,  Fletcher, 

130 
Maids  Tragedy,  The,  Beaumont 

and  Fletcher,  73,  74 
Malcontent,  7^he,  Marston,  165 
Man  in  the  Moon,  Drayton,  95 
Markham,  Gervaise,  132 
Marlowe,  Christopher,  43 
Marriage,  Miseries  of  Enforced, 

7 he,  VVilkins,  132 
Marston,  John,  22,40,  113,  162, 

184 
Mason,  John,  113 
Masque  of  Queens,  The,  Jonson, 

35 
Masques,  The  Jacobean,  13,23, 
26,  34-36,  89,  92,  152,   155, 

173 

Massinger,    Philip,  22,   79,  80, 
81,  82,83,  87,  124,  176,  202- 
217;  birth,  patronage,    203; 
education,  204 ;  burnt  plays, 
205,  217  ;   publications,  205, 
206  ;  death  and  burial,  208  ; 
his  characteristics,  207,  208  ; 
efifect  on  later  writers,  216 
May  Day,  Chapman,  41 
May,  Thomas,  179,  180 
Meres,  Francis,  98 
Mermaid  Tavern,  24,  70 
Metamorphosis  of  Tobacco,  The, 

107 
Middleton,  Richard,  113 
Middleton,     Thomas,    21,    26, 
123-131,    167  ;    birth,     early 
work,  124;  city  chronologer, 

125  ;  imprisonment  for  satire, 

126  ;  death,  ib.,  character  of 
his  writings,  126 


224 


Index. 


Mildrciados,  Quarks,  1 93 
Milton,  John,  15,  62,  138,  142, 

143,  145.  155 
Mirrha,  Earkstead,  112 
Mirror  for  Magistrates,  94,  1 13 
Monsieur  d' Olive,  Chapman,  40, 

41 

Monsieur  Thomas^  Fletcher,  81 
Moses  in  a  Map  of  his  Miracles, 

Drayton,  94 
Mufifet,  T.,  124 
Musceus,  44 
Muses''  Garden  of  Delights,  The, 

Jones',  114 
Mtistapha,    Lord   Brooke,   197, 

200 


N 


Nero,  178,  179 

Nerv    Inn,    The,    Ben  Jonson, 

26,  33 
New  Way  to  fay  Old  Debts,  A, 

Massinger,  205,  209,  213-215 
Niccols,  Richard,  113 
Nimphidia,    or   the    Court    of 

Fairy,  97 
Nobody  and  Somebody,  133 
Nosce  Teipsum,  Davies,  9,  112 


Odyssey,  Chapman,  44,  45 
Old  Fortitnatus,  Dekker,  21 
Orchesti-a,  Sir  J.  Davies,  8 
Othello,  19,  20 
Overbury,  Sir  Thomas,  115 
Owl,  The,  Drayton,  94,  95 


Panegyric,  S.  Daniel,  10,  ii 
Parliament  of  Bees,    The,  Day, 
173.  175,  176 


Parliameitt  of  Love,  The,  Mas- 
singer,  206 

Peele,  George,  113 

Pembroke,  Epitaph  on  Countess 
of,  156 

Pericles,  Shakespeare,  21,  132 

Philarete,  Fair  Virtue,  The 
Mistress  <?/,  Webster,  184,  186 

Philaster,  Beaumont  and  Flet- 
cher, 73,  75,  76 

Phillips,  198 

Phceftix,  7  he,  Middleton,  124 

Piscatory  Eclogues,  P.  Fletcher, 

145 
Poems,  Drummond,  103 
Poetry,  Campion's   Observations 

in  the  Art  of  English,  92 
Poetical  Essays  of  S.  Daniel,  10 
Poly-Olbion,    M.    Drayton,    97, 

98-100,  153 
Pope,  Alexander,  52,  61,  181 
Progress  of  the  Soul,  The,  Donne, 

52 
Pseudo-Martyr,  Donne,  49 
Pttrple  Island,  The,  P.  Fletcher, 

138,  145,  146-149 


Quarles,"  Francis,  188-194;  us  a 
verse-writer,  188,  189  ;  birth, 
convictions,  marriage,  189 ; 
Biblical  paraphrases,  190,192  ; 
employments,  death,  191  ; 
elegies,  192-194 

Qucen^s Arcadia,  The,  S.Daniel, 
12,  13 


R 


Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  8,  24,  158 
Pam  Alley,  Barry,  132 
Renegado,  The,  Alassinger,  206, 
207 


Index, 


225 


Revenger's    Tragedy^     7/ie,    C. 

Tourneur,  159,   161,  162,  164 
Ro77ian  Actor,   The,  Massinger, 

206 
Ronsard,  Pierre  de,  102 
Rowlands,  Samuel,  17,  18,  112 
Rowley,  Samuel,  132 
Rowley,  William,  119,  124,  125, 

126,  128,  129-131,  174 
Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife, 

Fletcher,  82 
Ryme,  Defence  of  S.  Daniel,  10 


Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst,  8 
Saintsbury,     Mr.    George,     12, 
112,  150 

Sannazaro,  149 

Satires  of  J.  Donne,  49,  51,  52 

Satyr,  The,  B.  Jonson,  23 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  on  Jonson,  37 

Scottish  poetry,  lOi 

Scourge  of  Vemis,  The,  112 

Second  Maiden'' s   Tragedy,  The, 

133 

Sejamis,  his  Fall,  B.  Jonson,  23, 

24>  3i»  33.  171 
Selden,  John,  24,  98,  152 
Shakespeare,  18-21,  23,  i%,  73, 

84,   85,    113,    114,    117,  125, 

130,  132,  133,  156,  171,  173 
Sharpham,  Edward,  132 
Shepherd,     N.     Breton's,     The 

Passionate,  15,  16 
Shepherd^s        Hnnting,        The, 

Wither,  185,  186 
Shepherd,  Jonson's,  The  Sad,  36 
Shepherd's  Pipe,  The,W.  Browne, 

152,  I55»  157 
Shirley,  James,  41,  203 
Sicelides,  P.  Fletcher,  145 
Sidney,   Sir   Philip,    195,     196, 

203 
Sir  Giles  Goosecap,  134 


Smith,  Wentworth,  133 

,  William,  133 

Sonnets,  Shakespeare's,  21 

Southwell,  Robert,  6 

Spenser,     Edmund,     139,    149, 

152,  154,  158 
Staple  of  Nezas,  The,  Jonson,  26, 

32 
Stephen,  Mr.  Leslie,  202 
Still,  John,  4 

Stirling,  Earl  of.  6'^t?  Alexander. 
Suckling,  Sir  John,  38 
Swetnam,  Joseph,  134 
S'tuetnam  the  Woman-hater,  134 
Swinburne,  Mr.  A.  C,  21,  27,  30, 

32,  39,  43,  132,  133,  167,  168 
Sylvester,  Joshua,  14,  15 


Tailor,  Robert,  177 

Tale  of  a  Tub,  Ben  Jonson,   27, 

33 

Tears  on  the  Death  of  Moehades, 

Drummond,  103 
Tears  of  Peace,  The,  Chapman, 

42 
Technogainta;  or.  The  Marriage 

of  the  Arts,  Holiday,  179 
Tempest,  The,  Shakespeare,  20 
Tethys^s  Festival,  S.  Daniel,  13 
Thierry  and  Theodoret,  Fletcher, 

81 
Tieck,  133 
Timon  of  Athens,  20 
Tomkins.      See  Tomkis. 
Tomkis,  John,  177,  178 
Tourneur,  Cyril,    133,  159- 164, 

176  ;  characteristics,  159-160  ; 

lost  works,  162-163 
Townsend,  Aurelian,  27 
Transformed       Metamorphosis, 

The,  Tourneur,  162 
Translations   of  Chapman,    39, 

43-46, 


226 


Index. 


Travel:  of  Three  English 
Brothers^  Day,  174 

Troilns  and  Cressida,  Shake- 
peare,  20 

Turk,   7 he.  Mason,  133 

Tivo  Noble  Kinsmen,  1  he,  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  73,  76 

Twyne,  Thomas,  7 


U 


Ulysses  and  the  Siren,  Daniel, 

12 
Undei'woods,  Ben  Jonson,  37 
Unnatural  Combat,    The,   Mas- 
singer,  206 


Valeniinian,  Fletcher,  78,  79 
Valour,!^.  Breton's,  The  Honour 

oj,  15 
Venus  and  Adonis,  150 
Virgin  Martyr^  Massinger,  22, 

205 
Vision  of  the  Twelve  Goddesses, 

S.  Daniel,  12 
Vol f  one  or  the  Fox,  Ben  Jonson, 

24,  27-29,  70 


W 

Walton,  Izaak,  49,  58 
Ward,  Mrs.  Humphrey,  200 
Warner,  William,  4 
W^atson,  Thomas,  5 
Webster,  John,  41,    160,    164- 


173,  206;  birth,  194;  col- 
laboration with  Dekker,  165  ; 
works,  165-166;  death,  166; 
his  style,  166-172  ;  period  of 
activity,  1 72-173 

Westzvard  Hoe !  Webster  and 
Dekker,  165 

Wheeler,  Elegy  on  Sir  Edmund, 

193 

W lute  Devil,  The,  Webster,  165, 

169,  170 
Wife,  A,  Sir  T,  Overbury,  115 
Wild   Goose   Chase,    The,   Flet- 
cher, 81 
Wilkins,  George,  21,  132,  174 
Winter'' sTale, The,  Shakespeare, 

20 

Witch,  The,  Middleton,  125,  126 

Wither,  George,  181-188  ;  place 
in  poetry,  181  ;  birth  and  edu- 
cation, 182 ;  imprisoned  for 
Abuses  Stript  and  Whipt,  183, 
184  ;  lack  of  self-criticism,  187, 
188 

Woman,  A  Very,  Massinger,  81 

Woman  is  a  Weathercock,  Field, 
87,88 

Woman-hater,  The,  Beaumont, 
70,  71 

Woman  Killed  laith  Kindness, 
Hey  wood,  118,  120 

Women  Bexvare  Women,  Mid 
dleton,  125,  127-129 

Women  Pleased,  Fletcher  and 
Massinger,  80 

Wood,  Anthony  h.,  113,  182, 
204 

Wdodhouse,  Peter,  113 

Wyatt,  ^ir  Thomas,  Webster 
and  Dekker,  165 


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